Battlestar Ulysses
by RebelRunner
Summary: Years of behind-the-scenes scheming at the highest levels in the Colonial government and military have reached critical mass. The Fall is preordained, Cylons or no Cylons. The crew of the Battlestar Ulysses must now survive not only the Colonial Holocaust, but a bloody civil war fought on home-colony and religious lines.
1. Chapter 1: Tech Support

Starboard Hangar Bay, Battlestar Ulysses  
Caprica Naval Shipyards

Commander Andrew Murray stood at ease, flanked by two Marines and Lieutenant Paul Quentin, the Ulysses' chief electrical engineer, as one of the hydraulic aircraft elevators lowered a Raptor to the hangar bay's reinforced steel deck. The dun-colored utility/EW craft was hooked to an aircraft tractor by several deckhands, and towed to a vacant space between two Mark VII Vipers.  
The Raptor's side hatch opened, permitting its two crewmembers and a handful of civilian passengers to exit. The crew, consisting of Lieutenant James 'Deliverance' Collins and Ensign Emily 'Hatch' Seale, saluted Murray, the Ulysses' captain, and began standard post-flight checks of the spacecraft. All three civilians stood in place, confused and rather overwhelmed by the din of routine hangar operations.  
"Mister Vernon, Commander Murray's there to see you," Collins pointed towards the officer. One of the civilians, a thin man in his early twenties, hesitantly walked towards Murray, followed by the other two.  
"Commander Andrew Murray," the captain introduced himself, shaking Vernon's hand. He's got a grip like a dead fish, Murray thought.  
"N-n-nice to meet you," Peter Vernon stammered, looking uneasy.  
"What, first time onboard a Battlestar?" Collins chuckled. The Raptor pilot had handed off his aircraft to its plane captain, and, along with Seale, was now technically on shore leave.  
"Shuttle's over that way," Murray pointed. "Twenty-four hours, remember," he frowned.  
"Yessir," Seale nodded.  
The captain laughed, discarding his artificially stern manner. "I was a lieutenant once. You all have some fun. Rest up for SILVERFLAG."  
Both Raptor crewmen grinned. "Won't let ya down, sir," Collins agreed.  
"Well, is this your first time on a Battlestar?" Murray asked, turning back to the civilian.  
"Uhh...yeah."  
"Sorry it couldn't be under better circumstances. The other two are with you?" The commander gestured towards Vernon's companions, a blonde woman and a pale man with dark hair and glasses. Both wore backpacks and carried briefcases containing  
"Yeah. This is Paula and Jon. They're with the integration team."  
Murray nodded. "I'll take y'all up to the CIC and computer bays. This is our chief electrical engineer, Lieutenant Quentin." Vernon winced as the naval officer's Aerilon accent showed, but followed him nonetheless. The two Marines took up the rear, before the small group boarded one of Ulysses' numerous high-speed elevators.  
After exiting the flight pod, Murray lead the technical-support team down the port main corridor, located two decks below the CIC. A double-wide hatch to one side led to the main computer bays, stacked three decks deep. Murray used his ID card-key to open the hatch, as well as the heavy blast doors beyond, while the Marines took positions on either side of the hatch, their M22 rifles held at port arms. At the press of a button from one of the Marines, the blast doors swung shut, once again insulating the bay from any and all external radiation or interference.  
"This here's our primary computer system," Murray said proudly. The Ulysses' central computer banks dated back to the years immediately following the Cylon Uprising, and had been specifically engineered to resist subversive electronic warfare techniques. "Scorpian Consolidated Systems Mark XV mainframe computing unit. Separated processors for maximum security. The whole bay has twelve-inch lead shielding.  
"Scorpian Consolidated? I've never heard of them." Vernon frowned.  
"Well, they went under about fifteen years ago. Right about the same time the Ulysses got her first refit, actually," Quentin said, speaking for the first time since the civilians had boarded the battlestar.  
The technical expert nodded. "What's the problem, exactly?"  
"Well, we installed the CNP program on the navigation computer," the lieutenant walked over to one of dozens of locked panels containing multiple processing unts, with external hard-disk memory units on sliding racks. "It completely crashed the entire system. We tried to reboot the computer, but it wouldn't respond. Still won't, actually." Quentin knocked on one of the processor cases. "See? Completely dead."  
"Any idea why?"  
Quentin shrugged. "This computer is damn near as old as the Ute herself. It's actually digital- no vacuum tubes here, at least. Some of the local stuff, though..."  
"I get the picture."  
"The Mark XV is a real squirrelly system, frankly. It's just designed to work with the old tactical and navigation programs. The CPU architecture is frakking ancient. I've never written much of any software for the mainframe, but it's just plain weird. The whole thing was designed to resist Cylon infiltration programs. Turns out, it just resists software updates," the engineer snorted.  
"I see the problem," Vernon said, seeming somewhat more comfortable now that he was somewhat in his element. "Why wasn't the mainframe replaced at some point?"  
"It's tied into the ship through direct electrical links. No data, only AC current. We'd have to tear the entire ship apart and replace hundreds, thousands of miles of wiring to take her up to current standards."  
"Well, then, I'll leave you two to puzle out a solution. I'll be in the CIC," Murray informed Quentin and the civilian IT specialists.  
"Aye, sir."  
Vernon only nodded before turning back to the navigation computer. "Can you open up all the panels?"  
"On it." Quentin pulled a ring of keys from his belt, and unlocked the four bays containing the primary navigation computer systems.  
"Gods," the civilian muttered. "Jon, can you bring that adaptor cable over and hook your laptop up to this thing. I want to see if we can get an error report."  
"Good luck, buddy. My guess is that it corrupted a lot of the memory. If the damn thing won't even boot..."  
Jon pulled a laptop and a bulky adaptor unit designed to interface with standard-issue diagnostic ports. He located an appropriate port on one of the processors, directly adjacent to a series of external bus slots, and connected the laptop to the aging mainframe computer.  
"Uh, boss..." the programmer began.  
"What?"  
"Take a look at this." The team leader leaned over, examining the laptop's screen.  
STOP: 0x00008A (0x083BH6, 0x93KB23, FF290CV8, 0x000000) - Address Px263SJ9 at 0x4RT98, DateStamp 0x4134G7  
"That's not normal. I mean, I've seen old systems before, but this is crazy."  
"I'm not familiar with the CNP code," Quentin interjected. "What are those decimal values?"  
"Code line addresses. I've seen a few errors in other segments, but never here. I've been through some functions of the CNP before, but these addresses are just basic functions."  
"I told you, the system architecture..."  
"I heard," Vernon frowned. "What's the system written in?"  
"AURL. There's a compiler to full binary, obviously." Quentin pronounced the language's name 'aural'.  
"What the hell is AURL?"  
"Aerilon University Resistant Language. It requires built-in security checks, hence resistant. Won't compile without them."  
The IT specialist's eyes widened. "That's the most idiotic idea I've ever heard of."  
"Have you read any logs from the Uprising? It's justified when they can take over your fire-control and shut down your ship."  
"Umm...oh. I guess. Well, I suppose we could write an interpreter to get CNP into Aural or whatever it's called, and compile it from there. The thing is, with how complicated the program is, the interpreter would be huge and program speed would be...sublight. To put it mildly."  
Quentin snorted. "With that kind of performance, we're better off calculating manually than using some patched-together solution."  
"Agreed. Do you have a backup copy of CNP?"  
"Sadly."  
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but I suggest we purge the system. Total hard reset."  
"Odd to hear, coming from someone who worked on the CNP, but..."  
"Yeah, I know. Look, Baltar didn't account for whatever the hell this thing-" Vernon gestured around the computer bay "-is when he wrote it. He's a genius, no doubt, but old Cylon War stuff isn't his first priority."  
"Tell me about it." Quentin glanced at the inoperative primary navigation computer.  
"Just wondering, how many other ships have this thing or other Scorpian Consolidated mainframes?"  
"Whew," Vernon sighed, looking upwards and stroking his chin thoughtfully. "The Protector, one of our escorts, has it. Maybe another one or two older Defender-class ships like her, two other Battlestars like ours- the Hydra and Dauntless. Past that, a lot of stuff from the Cylon Uprising. A lot of it is Reserve, Guard, or mothballed, best as I remember."  
"So, not that much in the grand scheme of things. Okay. We can work this."

"So, what's the status on our air wing?" Murray asked Lieutenant Wolfe, the Ulysses' tactical officer.  
"Ah...one minute, sir." The tactical officer entered several commands into his computer terminal, calling up a status report from the small-craft maintenance division. "Last report, seventy-six-percent mission-capable rate for the Mark Sevens. Eighty-two for the Raptor squadrons."  
"And the strike Vipers?" In addition to troubleshooting software problems, the Ulysses had made port over Caprica to exchange one squadron of Mark VII Viper fighters with another squadron of the craft's two-seat strike/EW variant.  
"Four have been transferred. VF-127 has returned all aircraft to the yard hangars before flying them down to Mugu Air Station, and the new birds are roosting in the starboard flight pod."  
"Outstanding. Have we got an ETA on the rest?"  
"No sir, but they're scheduled to all be on board by oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning," Wolfe shrugged, recalling a typed report from the commander of the shipyards' fighter wing regarding the exchange of assets.  
"How about ammunition levels?" Murray turned his swivelling chair to face Lieutenant (j.g.) Frank Redman, Ulysses' gunnery officer.  
Redman glanced at the turret and missile bay status displays called up on his terminal. "Primary KEWs have seventy-four percent ammunition. All twenty-four ASMs are in the tubes, magazines are at fifty percent capacity. Twelve nukes."  
"Understood. Lieutenant Redman, send in a requisition request for six thousand rounds. Get our magazines up to eighty percent; I want the ship at full combat readiness for the exercise." The battlestar, like most vessels in the Colonial Fleet, used automatic-fire KEWs, or kinetic energy weapons, which chewed through ammunition extremely rapidly. The Ulysses had engaged in a brief live-fire exercise against target drones on the edge of the Cyrannus system, which had consumed approximately one thousand rounds of ammunition. None of the costly Diamond Shark anti-ship missiles had been expended.  
"And, finally..." Murray spun his chair to its forward facing. "Navigation. Status on the primary nav computer?"  
"Still down, sir," Ensign Sarah Dremmond sighed. "The secondary's working just fine, though. It's that damn CNP. Sorry, sir, I just don't trust the thing."  
"Can't say I do, either. I don't care how useful it's supposed to be; if something crashes a solid computer that's never given us a problem before, it ain't worth it. The Fleet can handle VLF flash traffic for position updates if they're so keen on centralizing things."  
Lieutenant Commander Nick Kleiner, the Ulysses' XO, frowned. "The Admiralty is going to have serious problems with that. For how much they paid Baltar, they'll be mighty pissed..."  
"Sir, for how much they paid Mr. Baltar, they should expect the damn software to work on Fleet computers," Dremmond pointed out.  
Kleiner's nostrils flared. "Ensign-"  
"That's fair," Murray noted. "Quentin thinks it's fundamentally incompatible with the CPU architecture or some weaselly technobabble like that. It doesn't sound like an easy fix." He picked up the interphone handset from its socket next to the main polar-plot DRADIS display. "Paging Lieutenant Quentin, paging Lieutenant Quentin, please call the CIC. That is all." He set the handset down.  
A moment later, the interphone rang. "CIC, Quentin," the electrical engineer said flatly.  
"Lieutenant, what's the status on repairs to the primary nav computer?"  
"Uhh...we're pretty much dumping its memory. We'll need to get some spare drives in case the entire system was corrupted. I could see us having to start from scratch and just reload the old software from a backup copy."  
"Thank the Gods we didn't install the thing on the secondary."  
"Glad you and I are on the same page, sir. We can get eighty-five percent calculation performance for the exercise. It's not perfect, but it's the best we can do."  
"Thank you, Lieutenant. That'll be all."  
"No problem, sir."  
Murray hung up the receiver and sighed. The navigation computer fault was only one of the worries he bore. SILVERFLAG was the other.  
An annual large-scale exercise focused on fighter operations, SILVERFLAG was hosted in Helios Delta's orbital system, near the sparsely-populated colony of Aquaria. The Ulysses, her escort group, and three other battlestar groups had been selected for the first week of the exercise. From the operations order Murray had read over, the Aurai, Invincible, and Boreas- of the Valkyrie, Glorious, and Mercury classes respectively- would be present.  
Tactical jumps were frequently a major component of successful operations. While Murray was fully confident in his ship's ability to execute long-distance FTL travel, he was unsure if the secondary computer, with its somewhat reduced performance, could calculate navigation solutions with the pinpoint accuracy required when operating in close proximity of friendly forces.  
"Dremmond, what's your opinion on the secondary nav computer, for tactical jumps?"  
The blonde navigation officer shrugged thoughtfully. "Workable. We can't cut things quite so close, though."  
Murray cursed the old design protocols that forced an uneven division of computing power between the two units. Use of the secondary had not been judged likely enough to justify a full duplication, and the primary computer had received the remainder of the vacant bays. The commander distrusted computer networks almost as much as his Academy classmate Bill Adama, but even old Bill had to admit that the damn things could be useful from time to time.  
"Give us a twenty-percent additional safety margin on all jump calculations until Quentin and the tech-monkeys have the primary up again."  
"Yessir."

"Of anywhere in the Colonies, why in the hell did it have to be here?" Lieutenant James Collins groaned as he stepped off the personnel shuttle and onto the tarmac at one of Caprica City's numerous spaceports.  
"Krunch, can you please explain to me what the hell is wrong with Deliverance?" Seale frowned. "A twenty-four-hour pass on Caprica, and he's complaining?"  
Lieutenant Charles 'Krunch' Wakefield snorted. "He's from Aerilon, you know. They prefer tractors."  
Deliverance laughed despite himself. "Yeah, y'all are pretty much right, I guess," he admitted, looking somewhat resigned. "So, what heretical nonsense are you getting us into now?" he asked the two other Raptor crewmembers. Krunch and Deliverance were both line pilots in their mid-twenties, while Hatch had only graduated from advanced ECO training six months prior. All were assigned to VAQ-142 'Wolves', the Ulysses' single Raptor squadron. Lieutenant Toby  
"I wouldn't call it nonsense, per se...maybe we can hit up some of the local casinos," Krunch suggested.  
"Gambling's a sin!"  
"Says the guy who won two hundred cubits off my sorry ass in the past week or two."  
"Well, organized gambling, I guess," Deliverance shrugged, slinging his digital-camouflage backpack over one shoulder. "The kind with strippers."  
Krunch feigned disappointment. "Well, what's a bored Raptor jock to do?"  
Deliverance shot his friend an expression that suggested the answer was obvious. "Bars," he snorted.  
"Once an Aerilonian, always an Aerilonian," Hatch laughed. "I hear there's a lot of good places near here. Thirsty Fleet folks off on leave, you know the drill. We can take a cab."  
"Works," Collins agreed, content with the entertainment, if not the destination.


	2. Chapter 2: Jerry-Rigged and Dangerous

_**Officers' Mess, Battlestar Ulysses**_

_**Caprica Naval Shipyards**_

"You see, what I don't get," Lieutenant Quentin began, taking a rather large bite of a hamburger, "is why the primary basically committed suicide instead of printing an error report. We had a new fire-control program a few months back that was incompatible with the weapons-systems computer. It was an architecture issue, again, but we got an error report before the system crashed. We removed the drive with the program and-" the Fleet electrical engineer made a triumphant gesture, waving his hamburger- "voíla. It went back to normal."

"Yeah, I had Jon try that," Vernon frowned. "It still wouldn't start. I had one of your engineers send in a request for new hard disks with the original firmware and nothing else. I guess we can just reset the system from scratch. If that doesn't work, we could try…well, I dunno. At that point, we should look into sourcing a whole spare computer."

"Has this happened before?" Quentin asked, trying to hide his suspicion.

"We had one Battlestar lose most controls during the GOLDEN SWORD exercise. It turned out to be a serious integration bug, but we fixed it. It affected some of the ship's small craft as well," the programmer shrugged.

Quentin appeared to turn purple with rage. "Are you frakking kidding me? You can't reboot a Viper in the middle of a furball! Gods, was that the CNP, too?"

"Yes," the civilian sighed, looking down at the mess table. The two had quickly struck up a friendship, but the IT specialist had never before seen his military counterpart so angry. "We fixed that, too."

"Well, fine, but I'm issuing a standing order requiring standard Mark Seven software tapes to be retained. Their systems should be compatible, but I don't want to lose our entire air wing because of a computer fault. We'll be able to reset, just in case." The electrical engineer chuckled softly to himself.

"What's funny?" Vernon asked, perplexed.

"All of this, and I don't even know one thing: what's the CNP supposed to actually do?"

Vernon hesitated, trying to mentally sum up the program's intended functionality. "The CNP is designed to permit direct Fleet control over combatant ships' strategic maneuvering, and facilitate data-sharing during combat. It also permits greater navigational accuracy." He snorted at the irony, having heard of the measures Commander Murray had instituted.

"You told me that you helped develop navigation software for the _Andraste _and the _Glorious _class, right?" Quentin asked.

The civilian nodded. "That's right."

"Those ships have extremely integrated computers. What would happen if this kind of system crash occurred on, say, the Andraste?"

Vernon turned white with the realization. "It's not really possible, but, hypothetically speaking, the battlestar could be completely disabled."

"Shit," Quentin said simply. The two rose from the table and were about to return their trays when Jon ran into the mess, out of breath and looking excited.

"Don't tell me," Vernon said deadpan. "The Cylons came back, didn't they."

"No, those disks came in when you were at lunch," the programmer panted. "We swapped them out and the primary's back online. No faults."

Vernon grinned. "Great work," he said, giving the other IT team member a congratulatory slap on the back. "We'll be right over."

Master Chief Petty Officer Stan Adams, Ulysses' COB and, by connection, head of hangar operations, frowned at the latest order from the electrical engineering department. Someone wanted a fully-functional Raptor navigational computer delivered to the main computer bay by 1600, with a power supply adapted to shipboard standard, and a data-only unidrectional output cable.

"What the frak?" the Chief snorted. "Crewes! Hester! Davis! Get your asses over here!" he shouted.

Minutes later, three of the Ulysses' dedicated Raptor techs, all Aviation Electronics Technicians, showed up, all wearing characteristic yellow hi-visibility uniforms.

"Can you all get me a Raptor nav computer?" Adams asked, handing Aviation Electronics Mate 1st Class Steven Crewes, the senior 'knuckle-dragger' of the group, the tech order.

Crewes looked over the sheet of paper, recently printed from one of the numerous computer terminals. "Uhh…I think so, sir. Raptor 542's down with a DRADIS fault, so we'll cannibalize her computer. It'll be faster than requisitioning one, and we'll get a spare from the yards."

Adams nodded. "Good. Get to work."

"Aye, Chief," Crewes acknowledged, turning for the 'down' Raptor. Hester, a junior tech from Scorpia, located a toolkit, which she immediately brought over to the rear end of the specified craft.

This particular model of Raptor had its jump computer located on the underbelly, just forward of the fairing containing the jump drive itself. Crewes and Davis sat down under 542's engines, quickly locating the computer's access panel.

"Number-three five-sixteenths," Crewes called, receiving the specified wrench from Hester moments later. With Davis supporting the weight of the panel, Crewes removed all sixteen bolts holding it in place, and dropped them into a plastic container he had set aside for exactly that purpose.

After using a pry-bar to break the panel's seal, Davis carefully set it down on the steel hangar bay floor.

"Three-thirty two, Hex, insulated," the other tech called to Hester, specifying a small screwdriver insulated and nonconductive for use around sensitive electrical components.

After around five minutes of careful work, the navigational computer came free, and was gently placed on a wheeled cart before being transported to a dedicated workbench. Crewes quickly located the proper transformer-inverter to convert the ship's 220-volt AC power into the 110-volt DC used by the Raptor's electrical system, and replaced the original power supply with the new unit. Simultaneously, Hester began making the necessary modifications to the data-output segment of the computer, while Davis and another crewman reinstalled the access panel.

"Davis!" Crewes called.

The technician looked up.

"You handle the paperwork, we'll run this up to the comp bay."

Davis groaned, irritated at yet again having to fill out Raptor 542's maintenance log with a record of modification.

"Thanks, Crewes," Lieutenant Quentin said as the technician and his female companion wheeled the navigation computer into the shielded main computer bay.

"No problem, sir. Mind if I ask what you wanted this thing for?" Crewes looked suspiciously at the Raptor component.

"Long story short, we're using it to bypass a mainframe compatibility issue with some new software. That-" the electrical engineer pointed to the new navigation computer- "will feed coordinates into the ship's systems. Mister Vernon and his eggheads wrote some software to tie it together."

"We've got some extra space here," Vernon announced, looking at an empty rack in the primary computer housing. "Can you two get that thing in?"

"Uhh...sure, sir," Hester shrugged, lifting up one end, while Crewes handled the other. The two Raptor technicians carefully slid the computer in between two processors, while Quentin secured it with bolts and nylon zip-fasteners.

"That's all?" Crewes asked expectantly.

"Yep. Thanks," Quentin said.

Their work complete, both techs wheeled the metal cart out of the computer bay, and began the long walk back to the hangar.

"Okay..." Vernon muttered to himself. "TX-5 plug to bus 16A3L...transformer's correct...AC power connected..." He slid back a few feet to study his handiwork. "Yeah, the computer's installed. All this should do is give the primary unit coordinates from CNP. CNP itself doesn't run on any of the ship's integrated computers."

"Well, that's reassuring," Quentin enthused. "CNP wasn't installed anywhere else, and I don't think Commander Murray would let us even if we wanted to."

The IT specialist sighed. "I can't blame him, but we should probably try to duplicate at least part of the functionality. DRADIS would probably be a good place to start."

"And how do you propose doing _that_ without crashing our fire-control computers?" Quentin snorted.

"Simple. You have redundant wireless transceivers, right?"

"Of course we do."

"If you'll give me some time to figure out AURL, I can write a routine to broadcast your DRADIS returns in a format CNP-equipped ships will accept. I can do that in a few days, maybe a week, but creating something to accept CNP DRADIS tracks is basically impossible without the program itself."

"And why's that?"

"From what I've seen of AURL and Scorpian Consolidated design architecture, it would take a Baltar to get the thing's internal anti-cracking routines to allow external inputs into its fire-control system. The architecture is just that weird."

"Aww...dammit..." Krunch muttered as he woke up, his head throbbing. Several of his squadronmates lay sprawled around the motel room with varying degrees of hangover. With the exception of one.

"Finally, you're up," Deliverance laughed. The Raptor pilot sat at the room's desk, reading a book and generally looking bored.

"What- how are you not-"

"I knocked back four last night. I'd do twice that back home," he grinned.

"Good Gods," the other pilot sighed. "Got any painkillers?"

"Yeah." Deliverance rummaged around in his backpack, tossing Krunch a pair of small capsules, each a small dose of an over-the-counter pain medication.

"Thanks, man. Hurts like hell afterwards, but you have to admit it was worth it."

"Beats the casinos any day," the Aerilonian laughed.

"Yeah."

"And hey, that guy hit first! Can you blame the deputies- err...police? That's what they call 'em here, right?"

Krunch nodded, the simple movement sending pain shooting through his head.

"We taught those goons not to frak with the Fleet!" Deliverance said, recalling Caprica City police leading several belligerent civilians out in cuffs.

"Yeah..." the other Raptor pilot cradled his head in his hands, waiting for the painkillers to take effect. "What time do we have to get on the shuttle?"

"Sixteen hundred."

"What time is it?"

Deliverance glanced at the motel room's digital clock. "Eleven hundred. Five hours to kill."

"Do you know of any tractor museums around here?"

The Aerilonian sighed in mock despair. "There ain't nothing wrong with preferring tractors to people!"

"Yeah, there is!"

"Whatever. I vote we grab some lunch once the rest of these clowns wake up. There'd better be some good chicken 'round here..."

"This is Caprica City, not Birmingham," Krunch chuckled.

"Damn Capricans! First casinos, now a guy can't get a good plate of fried chicken? What in the name of Kobol is wrong with this place?"

Krunch burst out laughing, waking two of the sleeping Fleet crewmen, both Strike Viper pilots from VFAQ-141 'Shadowhawks'. The two had tagged along with the group of _Ulysses_ crew as their squadron embarked aboard the Battlestar, under the pretense of 'improving working relations'.

One, a thin man with the callsign Marble, reflecting his nearly-shaved head, sat up in an armchair. "Let the dead have their rest," he cracked.

Deliverance laughed despite himself. "Y'all already had eight hours! And I ain't heard anything from the chicks yet. They're probably still out," he said in reference to the handful of female pilots, who had taken an adjacent room.

"Fair."

The other Strike Viper pilot, Bonesaw, groggily rose from his position on the floor, cracking his neck to relieve some tension. "Great bonding experience, don't ya think?" he asked looking over the handful of Fleet personnel actually awake.

"Yeah," Krunch agreed, his enthusiasm dampened by his still-throbbing headache. "SILVERFLAG sounds like a blast. Maybe we should get everyone else up so we don't miss it."

"VFAQ-141 is reporting full readiness for departure and SILVERFLAG, sir," reported Lieutenant Commander Carl 'Duck' Wilde, the _Ulysses_' CAG.

"Good to hear, Duck," Commander Murray said. "Tell your pilots that we'll be leaving inside of two days. The snipes came up with some kind of quick-fix for the CNP navigational issues. Apparently it involved a Raptor's jump computer. I didn't want to know any more than that," the battlestar's captain admitted.

"A Raptor's- wait, what? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever- my Gods. I don't want to know either," the CAG shook his head. "That just can't be a good idea."

"Well, it didn't crash the primary navigation computer- unlike the CNP- so, as insane as it sounds, I'm okay with it."

"I'll trust you, then, sir," Duck chuckled. He looked around the CIC, casually observing the _Ulysses_' crew going about their duties. In combat, he would spend most of his time in the CIC, coordinating the air wing's operations via DRADIS plot and wireless. He had been enthusiastic about the new capabilities offered by the CNP, but was somewhat concerned after hearing reports of the _Kali_'s malfunction during GOLDEN SWORD, and of the program's deleterious effects on _Ulysses_' primary navigation computer.

"On another note, what's the status of your pilots?"

"Excellent. We just had one group get back from liberty; there's another going out shortly. Deliverance told me some civvies tried to start up a brawl in some bar, but they broke it up."

"Good kid, that one," Murray remarked.

"For an Aerilonian."

"I'm one, too, you know."

"Yessir. I'm from Sagitarron myself. Really, though, how many of us aren't from Caprica, Scorpia, or Tauron?"

"I don't remember the numbers, Duck, but I'd imagine-"

"Eight percent. _Eight_. I've heard of pilots _refusing_ to fly with Sagitarrons."

"Where was _that_?" Murray frowned.

"The _Andraste_."

"Thank the Gods we don't have that on the _Ulysses_, then."

"We're thirty-six percent minority. It's not by choice."

The commander sighed. "I'll take what I can get."

Kleiner walked over to the two men. "Sir, DRADIS reports that the _Galactica_ has exited her berth and is underway."

"Thanks, XO," Murray said. "Sensors, I'd like eyes on _Galactica_, please."

"Aye, sir," Lieutenant (j.g.) Brett Philips replied. The large LCD screen in the front of the CIC used externally-mounted cameras to create a panoramic image of the battlestar's surroundings. Now, with several commands entered by Philips, the view swung left, showing part of the Ulysses' two-mile-long berth in addition to a Cylon Uprising-era medium battlestar underway.

"Magnify," the commander ordered. Almost instantaneously, the screen view zoomed in on the battlestar, stripped of much of her armor plate and with one flight pod sealed off in preparation for the ship's retirement as a museum in approximately two months' time. The lettering 'GALACTICA' could be seen emblazoned in white just above the pod's launch tubes, while a ceremonial escort of Mark II and Mark VII Viper fighters flanked the old battlestar.

"Damn shame," Murray sighed, absent-mindedly wiping away a single tear. "I loved that old girl."

"Ah, sir-" Dremmond began, focused more on the viewing screen than her navigation console. "Is that-"

"A starboard dip," Murray muttered, watching _Galactica_ lower her starboard flight pod in an Uprising-era gesture few contemporary Colonials would recognize.

"Holy frak," Kleiner breathed. "Now _that_ is a beautiful ship."


	3. Chapter 3: SILVERFLAG

_**CIC, Battlestar **_**Ulysses**

_**Caprica Naval Shipyards**_

"All essential personnel are onboard," Kleiner reported.

"Appreciate it, XO," Commander Murray acknowledged. "Navigation, generate FTL coordinates for the SILVERFLAG exercise ground in Helios Delta," he ordered.

"Aye, sir," Ensign Dremmond nodded, calling up a computer-generated set of coordinates.

"Prepare for separation. Helm, spool up sublight drives and give me thirty-percent forward thrust upon separation.

"Copy that, sir," the _Ulysses_' helmsman acknowledged.

Lieutenant Commander Kleiner picked up an interphone handset. "All hands, action stations, action stations. Set condition two throughout the ship and prepare for separation. Set condition two throughout the ship and prepare for separation," the XO announced over the battlestar's PA system.

Down the _Ulysses_' length, crewmen sealed hydraulically-assisted hatches in preparation for the battlestar's departure from the Caprica Naval Shipyards. As indicator lights on the ship's damage-control status board winked green, docking tunnels disengaged and retracted with brief puffs of dissipating atmosphere. Slowly, _Ulysses_' seven main engines glowed to life, propelling the old battlestar forward and out of her yard slip.

"Ten minutes to safe jump point, sir," Dremmond reported, not looking up from her station. As a precaution, the navigation crew had generated coordinates from both computers, in case the improvised CNP interface caused a serious fault. Given the intense gravitational wake-turbulence generated by a battlestar's FTL field, the ship was required to clear the vicinity of the yards before executing the jump to Helios Delta.

"Main engines are online and reporting thirty-percent output as ordered," the helmsman announced.

"Thank you, ensign," Murray said. "Lieutenant Wolfe, status on the _Warden_ and _Protector_?"

The tactical officer glanced at the polar-plot DRADIS and flash-traffic printouts from the two escorts. "Both Gunstars are holding at jump distance with FTL drives spooled up as planned."

"Excellent. Send a dispatch ordering Lambert and Vought to jump when we cross the safety threshold."

"Aye, sir." The lieutenant quickly typed out the message on his terminal before sending it to the battlestar's communications array for transmission.

Murray looked at the primary navigation display, adjacent to the DRADIS. The _Ulysses_ would reach the safe-jump threshold in under two minutes. "Navigation, start the jump clock."

"Copy, sir." The large LED display began ticking down the seconds to jump. Towards the end, Kleiner began counting down in a soft whisper, "...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one...jump."

For an instant, all onboard the Ulysses experienced the bizarre widening and contraction of consciousness of an FTL jump. Murray was used to it, having executed thousands such jumps during his career, but a few of the junior bridge crew looked somewhat ill.

"DRADIS contacts, _Warden_ and _Protector_ are on station, diagonal formation," Wolfe announced.

"Incoming flash traffic from the _Invincible_," a communications officer said, tearing a sheet from the VLF wireless output printer and handing it to Murray, who quickly read the report over before handing it to Kleiner. The _Glorious_-class battlestar and her escorts had been joined with the _Ulysses_ battlestar group, and pitted against the _Aurai_ and _Boreas_, the OPFOR for the exercise.

"Comms, get me _Invincible_ Actual," Murray ordered.

"Aye, sir. Frequency is dialled in and secure." The commander picked up the wireless' handset. "Invincible Actual, this is Commander Murray aboard [iUlysses."

"Good to hear from you, Murray," Commander Joshua Mitchell replied. "I just had Comms fire off a secure flash message with a SITREP."

"Acknowledged, we received it. Be advised, the task group flag is now located onboard Ulysses."

"Copy, Ulysses Actual." As the senior of the two officers, Murray was the de facto commander of the two-battlestar task group, designed to simulate an ad hoc situation that would be encountered in an actual shooting war.

SILVERFLAG was, in fact, just about the closest thing to an actual shooting war most of the crew had experienced thus far. A contingent of referees had positioned themselves in the computer bay, and were monitoring the command crew's performance while using direct computer controls to simulate the effects of battle damage on the ship.

"Ulysses Actual, be advised, we just detected what appears to be the mass shadow of a large vessel coming across Aquaria's horizon," Mitchell reported.

"Set condition one," Murray quietly ordered Klein. The executive officer nodded, with the PA order going out moments later. The CIC erupted into a flurry of activity as Ulysses went to war- real or otherwise. "Copy, Invincible Actual. We are launching reconnaissance sorties momentarily; Murray out." He hung up the wireless and turned to Duck. "CAG, get me escorted target-acquisition Raptors ASAP."

"Aye, sir," the CAG reported. "Fighters?"

"Scramble all."

"On it." Murray watched for a moment as the experienced Viper pilot began ordering and coordinating the numerous attack craft under his command before looking at the main DRADIS display. Aquaria was roughly located at the battlestar's two-o-clock position, while the Invincible and one of her escorts, the Thrasymedes,a Guardsman-class gunstar/carrier hybrid, had tucked themselves in close to the colony, using it as a shield from the Mercury-class ship suspected to be hiding in the planet's shadow. The other escort, the Pandarus-class Missilestar Aeneas, stood off at a longer distance suited to employment of its numerous anti-shipping missile tubes.

"Wolfe, order Protector to move in and support Invincible. Warden is to cover our opposite flank."

"Copy, sir," the tactical officer nodded, firing off flash messages to both gunstars.

"Three squadrons away," Duck called. "Both TA birds just executed tactical jumps into close orbit. They're coming over the northern pole."

"Jumped?" Murray was surprised, seeing as Mark VII Vipers were not FTL-capable.

"Two armed Raptors are escorting each."

"Good work. Helm, take course zero-one-five carom zero-one-zero, all ahead full."

"Aye, sir..." the helmsman started. Almost instantaneously, the seven massive engines spooled up to full power, forcing some CIC crew to brace against the forcible acceleration. "All ahead full."

"Flash to Invincible: Are moving to support. Execute cooperative rolling T-pole maneuver against _Boreas_. Aeneas and Ulysses air wing to engage escort group," Murray ordered.

"Sir, that Missilestar could probably cripple _Boreas_ if we let her close enough," Wolfe said, unsure of his commander's strategy.

The Cylon Uprising veteran smiled. "Exactly. Those escorts- last I remember, Boreas rides with a Titan-II and a Defender. Both of them outgun her and us. We saturate them with missiles and fighters; they're forced to use their batteries as point-defense and flak to survive. Only Boreas can properly engage us, and we outgun her by two hundred percent with just us and Invincible."

"And their fighters?"

"Protector's flak and Mitchell's fighters should be enough to counter them. Duck, direct some of Invincible's fighters to go after Boreas' air wing. Target their Raptors."

"Sir, they're outnumbered by nearly thirty percent. Can I commit VF-102 to support?"

"Go ahead, CAG. Good call. Are the Strike Vipers mixed in with the rest?"

"Affirmative. They've got Bulldog missiles loaded for flak suppression." Of course, the Strike Vipers of VFAQ-141 were not carrying live weapons for the exercise, but instead, accurately-weighted dummy missiles that simulated the effect of munitions on the fighters' handling.

"Okay. What's their ETA?"

"One-five minutes for the first wave," the CAG replied.

"Roger. Keep me posted. Wolfe, flash to Warden and request a SITREP."

"Copy, sir. Typing it up now." The tactical officer's fingers flew across the terminal keyboard, rapidly composing a message to the gunstar's commander, Lieutenant Commander Vought.

"Comms, get me a line with Quentin."

"Interphone line three," a communications officer said. Murray picked up the handset. "Lieutenant Quentin, this is Murray."

"What's the matter, sir?" the electrical engineer asked.

"Nothing's the matter. How are our computer systems holding together?"

"We've got a minor cooling problem with the new computer, but I called Engineering and had them allocate additional power to the climate-control units. The CNP interfaces are working properly; diagnostics say our data is reaching Warden as advertised."

The battlestar's commander breathed a sigh of relief. "Good to hear. Give me a priority-one call if there's a serious malfunction, and disconnect CNP if anything goes wrong."

"Copy, sir. Is that all?"

"Affirmative. Murray out."

Deliverance nervously eyed Raptor 490's DRADIS display, listening to the chatter from Invincible's air wing as it engaged the 'enemy' fighters. One of Ulysses' squadrons, the Diamondbacks, had been detached to assist, and from the sound of it, the OPFOR was taking a reasonable beating. However, from time to time, 'enemy' Vipers had drifted uncomfortably close to the small Raptor formation. Krunch and his ECO had taken a repaired 542, while Lieutenant (j.g.) Christine 'Dent' Marchfield and Ensign Michael 'Tunnel' Vizio flew 255, the target-acquisition bird. 490 and 542 both boasted two twelve-tube missile pods mounted on their flanks, while 255 was unarmed. Tunnel, working in conjunction with 614 and its crew, was providing targeting guidance and DRADIS early warning for both the friendly task group and its strike craft.

"Shadow 242, advised engage that escort's weapons pod struts; there should be tylium lines running to the hangar. T-Bolt 626, bandit at your six, Hunter 429, cover 626, target bandit 047. Shadow 453, fence in, acknowledged. Nikel 992, copy fuel leak, RTB," he could overhear on the Strike frequency as Tunnel directed friendly fighters with the guidance of Duck, _Ulysses_' CAG.

"Uhh...hey, Deliverance?" Hatch called from the Raptor's rear ECO station, sounding concerned.

"Yeah?" the pilot replied.

"We've got four Vipers on a direct intercept course for 255."

"Frak..." the Aerilonian swore. "Raptor 255, you have bandits inbound. 542, engage at will.

"Copy," Krunch acknowledged. Deliverance saw the other armed Raptor spin on its axis, RCS jets thrusting at full power, before unleashing a hail of infrared-guided missiles. He spun 490 around to face the incoming Vipers, received three good locks, and ripple-fired a third of the Raptor's payload.

Two of the fighters were judged 'destroyed' by the game-tabulation, while the Sparrow decoy drone launched by another diverted two missiles. A final fighter was 'damaged', and its pilot declared to have safely ejected. The 'destroyed' fighters broke away from the engagement, towards a 'graveyard' track used as a holding pen until the end of the simulated battle.

The surviving Viper, however, opened up on 255, scoring numerous 'hits'. The Raptor's DRADIS icon flashed, turning yellow.

"Ulysses, 255 just bought it," Deliverance reported, frustrated.

"Acknowledged, 490," one of the flight control officers under Duck reported. "We're launching a spare group. You are retasked to flak-suppression, 614 has targeting authority."

"Copy, Ulysses."

"Helm, make your course two-eight-five carom zero-zero-zero. Mister Redman, slew all turrets to bear on Boreas."

"Two-eight-five carom triple-zero, aye," the helmsman acknowledged.

"All turrets slewing now," Redman said, calling in orders to the various gun crews.

"Commander Mitchell reports commencing rolling T-pole maneuver," Lieutenant Wolfe stated. The T-pole was a maneuver adopted from ancient naval tactics, allowing warships to bring their full broadside firepower to bear against the enemy's weaker front end. Its rolling variant introduced a roll along the lateral axis, permitting the lower weapons batteries to fire in conjunction with the primary batteries along the craft's upper surfaces.

"Acknowledged. Helm, lateral roll, ten DPS to starboard."

"Aye." A tap of the Ulysses' RCS thrusters placed the battlestar into the desired roll. The CIC, located dead center, felt effectively none of the acceleration effects.

"Throttle back to twenty-percent on main engines. CAG, status on flak suppression?"

"Twenty-percent strike craft losses, the Titan-II is on fire and venting atmosphere; hostile flak is below half original intensity," Duck said, looking up from his computer display. "Hostile fighters are losing coordination; we took out their Raptors as you ordered."

"Weapons range in thirty seconds, sir," Lieutenant Redman reported.

Murray nodded. "Load slug rounds and engage when ready," he ordered.

In each of the Ulysses' thirty 500-millimeter KEW turrets, gun crews swapped autoloader feeds to the slug magazines. Previously, the majority had been firing only flak, shooting down occasional simulated missiles. Now, however, as Ulysses was moving in for the kill, anti-ship rounds were the order of the day.

"In range," Redman stated.

"Fire."

In a real engagement, each of the turrets would have spat one hundred ten-ton slugs of depleted uranium per minute. In this case, LED indicator lights on the CIC's weapons-control panels winked constantly between green and yellow, indicating ready-to-fire and firing, respectively. The only sound in the turrets themselves was the whining cycling of autoloaders.

"Well, that's anticlimactic," Kleiner muttered, glancing over at Redman's console. "How's the Boreas doing?" he asked.

Redman looked pleased. "Our first salvo annihilated her starboard launch tubes. We're also seeing some small fires, possible fuel leaks..."

"Good work."

"Ventral batteries firing now," the weapons officer said. "Good hits. Boreas is rolling; looks like she's trying to give us her good side."

"Missile launch! Six vampires incoming!" Wolfe exclaimed.

"Point-defense, on it," Redman said without looking up. "Three down. Four...shit." A pair of simulated anti-shipping missiles slammed into the Ulysses' port bow, punching through several decks before detonating.

"Engineering! Status?"

"Damage to frame 4A. Compartments 4-21A, 4-20A, and 4-22A are losing pressure. Fire in 4-21A," Lieutenant Commander Steven Douglas, Ulysses' chief engineering officer said.

"DC teams?" the battlestar's commander asked.

"Already on it. Three teams en route, two engaged."

"Is the fire spreading?"

"Yessir. 4-21B and 4-21C both have secondary damage, crews are reporting fire alarms."

"How many crew in the 4-21 stack?"

"Sixteen affected, sir."

"Vent 4-21A through C."

The engineering officer sighed, knowing that he could well be signing the virtual death warrant for up to sixteen of his crew. "Venting now. Hope they wore their vacuum suits…" He flipped several switches on the engineering display, which would have normally 'vented' atmosphere from the compartments via direct electromechanical link.

"The Boreas has a large fire going, sir," Redman called. "One of her port flight pods just lost two of its support struts. Viper launch facilities are offline. Major damage along the port bow, all guns are offline in that location."

"Sir, the Boreas is hailing us," Wolfe said. "It's...she's surrendering."

"Damn coward," Murray muttered. "Accept it. Order her captain to power down all weapons and recall surviving strike craft. Oh, and get a damage report on Invincible."

"Aye, sir."

Several minutes later, a flash transmission printed out, providing a full account of simulated damage dealt to the other battlestar.

"Uhh..." Murray groaned. "This ain't good."

"How bad?" Kleiner asked.

"Port flight pod is offline, vented compartments all along her starboard flank, half her bow guns are down, fire in several compartments, and two PD magazines went off. Around two hundred casualties." He handed the printout to the XO. "Have a look for yourself."

"Gods, that's bad. Have we heard from the Aurai]/i]?" the second-in-command officer asked Wolfe.

"The Warden has been chasing ghost contacts the whole time. Vought things it might be her, but it hasn't been confirmed yet."

"You know, you'd think she'd have engaged by now," the Ulysses' commanding officer mused. "That makes me think she doesn't have her escort. That's the Harmonia, right?"

"That's correct, sir. Cheetah-class light gunstar."

"Right. Valkyrie-class ships don't have the punch to go after a Gunstar singlehandedly. That makes me think that the Harmonia is waiting somewhere."

"Waiting for what?" Wolfe frowned.

"An opportunity. The Invincible- she couldn't survive that. Have Protector close with Invincible so their flak killboxes interlock. CAG, how many fighters do we have active?"

"One squadron, all told. The rest are re-arming and refueling," Duck replied. "You need the rest scrambled?"

"Exactly right."

"I can get you one flight now. We'll launch the rest as they're available."

"That works. Have your pilots ready to intercept missiles. Also, load all available Raptors with ASMs. They'll need an escort if we can provide one."

"On it, sir."

Suddenly, Murray remembered Thrasymedes. The gunstar/light carrier boasted two squadrons of fighters, and firepower nearly on par with a Defender. "Mister Wolfe, order Thrasymedes to recover fighters and jump to Warden's position. CAG, belay the escort on those Raptors; Thrasymedes's fighters can cover them."

Both division heads acknowledged the orders. Vipers began launching from Ulysses's flight pods, while a constant stream of 'destroyed' strike craft began recovering aboard the 'incapacitated' Boreas. The Protector's main engines spooled up, propelling the small escort craft towards its newly-assigned charge.

"New orders," Hatch called from 490's electronics console. "We're jumping out to the Warden to help out against Aurai. 542 as well; CAG is sending more strike Raptors."

"Hell yeah, maybe we can bag us a Battlestar," Deliverance grinned behind his tinted helmet visor.

"I'm plotting the jump now. The FTL drive's ready in under three," the female ECO reported.

"542, you copy the CAG?"

"Roger, Deliverance," Krunch reported, his voice heavily distorted by the wireless system. "Armed and ready, how about you?"

"Ditto. Sixteen in the tubes."

"Starting up the jump clock now," Hatch announced. The clock came up on the Raptor's instrument panel, reading ninety seconds to jump.

Deliverance quickly ran through the pre-jump checklist, ensuring that the craft's weapons were safed and that all electrical equipment was in its proper configuration. "Jump FENCE in," he reported.

"542, jumping in three...two...one...jump," Krunch called. At 'jump', his Raptor vanished into a pinprick of blue-white light. 490 followed mere seconds behind.


	4. Chapter 4: Initial Discrepancies

_**Chapter 4: Ghosts**_

_**CIC, Battlestar **_**Ulysses**

_**In orbit of Aquaria, Helios Delta System**_

_**1 month BCH**_

"Sir, Raptor 490 reports their element has safely jumped in. _Thrasymedes _is launching Vipers," Duck reported to his commanding officer. "I'm sending our Raptors in with the fighters."

Murray nodded. "Got that, CAG. Tactical, any word from _Warden_?"

"No, sir," Wolfe said. "She's holding formation with _Thrasymedes_."

The commanding officer nodded, hoping that his plan would proceed as intended. With any luck, _Aurai_ would fall into the trap laid by _Warden _and _Thrasymedes_, which, working in concert, could easily cripple or destroy the small Battlestar.

"Uhh…belay that, sir. Flash from _Warden_; she and the Raptors have positive ID on _Aurai_. Lieutenant Commander Vought is requesting firing clearance."

"Granted. CAG, get your Raptors on ASM suppression of _Aurai_."

"Copy that, sir," the air wing's commander acknowledged. "Raptor 490, 542, 295, 324, commence flak-suppression of the target, cleared hot."

Murray could hear several garbled replies over the usual din of routine wireless traffic that filled the CIC, while the VLF wireless output spat off streams of data. A glance upwards showed numerous blue tracks on the main DRADIS plot, representing friendly fighters and capital ships.

"So we just wait for them to come to us?" Kleiner grumbled. "Damn passive strategy if you ask me."

"Passive, I know. Thing is, _Invincible _was hit pretty hard. We can't just let _Aurai_'s escort show up and roll over her"

The XO muttered something under his breath. "We should at least send out Raptors to sweep the area. We overlooked that earlier and it might bite us in the ass if we aren't careful."

"It might. CAG, how many Raptors do we have available?"

"Ahh…three, sir."

"Launch them now. I want eyes on the opposite side of Aquaria; we haven't gotten a good look there since we jumped in."

"Should they jump?" Duck suggested.

"Affirmative. We need 'em there yesterday."

"On it, sir."

"The _Aurai_'s got targeting DRADIS coming online," Hatch muttered. "No fighters, though. What the hell is she doing?"

"Beats me," Deliverance shrugged, flipping the 'MASTER ARM' switch and selecting the Raptor's missile pods. "I've got a firing solution on her ASM tubes-"

"Frak! _Aurai_'s spooling up her FTL drive!"

"Aw, hell," the Raptor pilot groaned. "Tell _Ulysses_ and _Thrasymedes_. _Now_," he ordered.

"_Aurai_ just jumped out!" the ECO exclaimed.

"Sir! _Aurai_ just jumped away from _Warden_ and _Thrasymedes_! _Protector_'s got eyes on her; she jumped right next to Invincible. Fighters launching, sir!"

"Frak it!" Murray growled. "CAG?"

"Vipers launching now, sir."

Wolfe frowned, touching a hand to his headset as if he had heard something wrong. "_Protector_ Actual has a jump signature…it's _Harmonia_!"

"That's just frakking great," Kleiner muttered.

Murray suddenly snapped into action. "Helm, all ahead full. Make your course zero-one-zero, carom zero-two-zero. Roll one-five degrees to port. Mister Redman, get us a firing solution on the Harmonia." He paused to catch his breath. "Mister Wolfe, inform Lieutenant Commander Lambert that nuclear release is ordered against _Harmonia_ and _Aurai_."

"Sir?" the tactical officer looked up from his terminal, stunned. In the continuous internecine warfare between the Colonies leading up to the Cylon Uprising, nuclear weapons were rarely, if ever, used. Not until the Uprising had they entered into common use. Now, Battlestar commanders were granted release authority over the weapons, but their use was still frowned upon.

"That was an order, Lieutenant Wolfe," Murray snapped. Jarred, Wolfe hurriedly typed and sent the message.

The commander softened his tone after the tactical officer had dispatched the message. "If this were a real war, we could be saving a Battlestar and thousands of lives with those nukes, Mister Wolfe. If I order a nuclear launch, I'm _deadly serious_. Understood?"

"Yessir," the young lieutenant nodded nervously.

"Good. Mister Redman, how long to effective weapons range?"

"Closing into effective range now, Commander."

"Load AP. Fire for effect."

"Aye, sir," the Ulysses' tactical officer grinned, calling up an anti-ship fire mission for the second time that day. "Firing for effect."

Wolfe sighed. "Flash from the Invincible. She has a fire on her starboard flank, and is down to sixty percent engine output because another fire forced a shutdown of the number-two tylium turbopump. Oh, and Protector reports six nukes away."

"Inform Invincible that we'll begin transferring DC and firefighting teams momentarily. Call PriFly and order all of Invincible's small craft to be cleared for recovery if necessary."

"On it, sir," Wolfe paused, "-ahh, you might want to see this." He tore a dispatch off the VLF output printer and handed it directly to the battlestar's commander.

Murray laughed despite himself. Both the Aurai and [Harmonia had been calculated to be 'destroyed' by the nuclear-tipped Diamond Shark missiles. To avoid presenting the easy target of a unitary weapon, each Diamond Shark released its warhead along with a cluster of decoys designed to confound enemy point defense systems. The decoys appeared to have worked, as four of the six warheads were judged to have 'hit' their targets. "FRAKKING CLEVER BASTARD," the report ended. "CMDR. F.H. RICHARDS BS-75" Murray grinned. "I try to be," he muttered.

"What?" Kleiner asked.

"Nothin', nothin', just a...personal victory." He handed the printout to the XO.

With no enemy capital ships remaining, Ulysses' task group had theoretically won this round of the exercise. The exact scores would be tabulated in approximately three hours, permitting a detailed debriefing to take place.

Several minutes later, the "ALL CLEAR" dispatch arrived, terminating the day's exercise.

"Everyone who ain't helm, nav, engineering, or flight, take two hours," Murray ordered of the CIC's numerous officers. "Great performance, all of you. You deserve the rest."

Several CIC crew cheered, a hard-earned celebration of a largely successful exercise. The commander allowed himself to smile, absently watching icons representing fighters and other small craft recovering onboard Ulysses.

Deliverance shut down his Raptor's turbines, unlocking his helmet seals and stretching for the first time in several hours. He looked back, seeing Hatch do the same.

"Good time?" the female ECO asked.

"Hell yeah! The computer says we bagged a Viper and a half." He patted the Raptor's instrument panel affectionately. "Pretty good for a school bus."

"Or a tractor," Hatch cracked.

"Sure, a tractor with Javelin pods."

The ECO snorted.

"Hey, I wouldn't mind that for shootin' up varmints!" The pilot hoisted himself up and out of his ejection seat, taking care not to trip over Hatch as he walked to and opened the Raptor's fuselage hatch.

Hatch, having shut down her station's electronics, stood and exited the Raptor just behind Deliverance. Raptor 542 was parked directly adjacent to 490, and Krunch could be seen engaging in an animated argument with the aircraft's crew chief. Deliverance walked over to intervene, while Krunch gestured madly at one of 542's maintenance access panels.

Hatch stifled a laugh, and instead decided to appear interested in a VFAQ-141 Strike Viper being towed past by a tractor unit. The interest was actually not merely feigned; she had only seen a Strike Viper up close one time before the Shadowhawks were transferred aboard Ulysses. It was a lethal-looking craft, every inch a reflection of its namesake. The Strike variant replaced the Mark VII's shark-like vertical stabilizer with a bulge containing additional electronic equipment, and added a weapons systems operator's position behind the pilot's ejection seat. Twin raised fairings on the nose housed a precision target acquisition system, while pods on each wingtip served to mount electronic combat equipment. Each bladelike wing sported a pair of inert, training-only Kodiak anti-ship missiles, as well as a thirty-millimeter KEW and roll-axis RCS thrusters.

Hatch overheard something about the Raptor's FTL navigation computer being missing, and a laptop computer Krunch happened to have on hand being used in its stead. Finding the other pilot's dilemma somewhat interesting, she walked over to 542.

"What the hell is going on here?" the ensign asked, making a show of examining the Raptor and its attendant personnel.

Krunch shook his head. "Some frakking idiot of a knuckle-dragger took the FTL nav computer out without telling us. Apparently the paperwork was filed wrong or something like that." He held the thick three-ring binder containing the aircraft's maintenance logs, open to a recent date's records. "Where the hell is Chief Adams when you need him, anyways?"

"Well, the parts ID for the FTL nav is damn near the same as the ID for the backup astrotracker's power-supply computer," Deliverance explained. "I ain't never heard of one of those ever goin' down, and I guess Petty Officer Michaels-" he gestured towards 542's crew chief- "didn't think it was a down gripe for it to be missing." The pilot shrugged. "By the manual, he's right."

"How do you know that?" Hatch asked, somewhat unsure as to how the Raptor pilot would know parts-ID codes for the craft's computer systems.

"Back home on Aerilon, we owned a de-milled Raptor kitted out for crop-dusting. I took over workin' on her when I was fifteen; we'd get spares from the Fleet storage depot in Anniston," he explained.

"Oh."

The unfortunate crew chief had absolutely no idea why the computer had been removed, but verified that the unit was, in fact, missing from its housing. Finally deciding that the issue warranted attention from higher up, the petty officer walked over to the nearest interphone station and paged Chief Adams.

"That's all I can do, sir," he said, looking at Krunch. "It's not a standard check-item to see if the computer's _there_. We…uh, we just assume that nobody's randomly took parts off our bird."

Hatch shrugged, fully aware that her presence could do little good for the situation. "Let's go get some chow," she recommended.

Deliverance grinned. "I'll second that."

"I have to say, I was impressed by your initiative, Commander," Rear Admiral Oliver Wasserman said, leafing through sheets of performance reports gathered over the course of the exercise.

"Thank you, Admiral," Murray nodded, with Kleiner standing by his side. "This was an interesting twist, not having any prep time. More like a wartime scenario, I guess," the battlestar's commander shrugged, looking away from the exercise referee and towards the DRADIS plot. He had known Wasserman almost from the beginning of his career, but never felt close to the man. A Caprican, his upper-class, cosmopolitan sensibilities had not appealed to the son of a poor farmer from Moutrie, Aerilon.

"I could see that the _Aurai_'s maneuver threw you through a bit of a twist," Wasserman noted, underestimating the havoc that such an event would have wrought in an actual fleet action.

"That's an understatement," Kleiner snorted. "I had absolutely no clue what to do; nukes worked, though."

"That they did. It hurt your battlestar group's score on the exercise, but you pulled it out. Zero losses with both hostile battlestars destroyed- bluntly, Commander, that's damn impressive. In case you were wondering," the referee said, pulling a paper out from the bottom of the stack, "your score, computer-calculated, is three thousand nine hundred and twenty-four. That's in comparison to the Aurai's and Boreas' one thousand six hundred and seventy-two."

"Gods," the Ulysses' XO chuckled. "We wiped the floor with them."

Both of the battlestar's senior officers saluted the admiral, who, along with most of the referee crew located on Ulysses, departed the CIC for the waiting shuttle in the starboard hangar. The remainder of SILVERFLAG was geared towards fighter and small craft operations, to be undertaken both in orbit and on Aquaria proper.

"All Vipers and Raptors have recovered, sir," Duck announced. "We'll have everything turned around well before morning."

The next major component of the exercise involved recapturing a civilian vessel seized by terrorists. It was to be run concurrently with numerous combat drills for the Viper pilots, allowing them to practice their skills against new adversaries and some of the hodgepode of other Viper variants operated by other vessels in the Fleet. Fighters were far from standardized- the Ulysses flew several different blocks of Mark VII fighters, while, for example, the _Aurai _operated a mixture of late-block Mark Vs and Mark VIIs.

"Lieutenant Commander Wilde, are you current on your flight hours?" Murray asked.

"Yessir. Why?"

"You're leading the hostage-rescue mission tomorrow."

"That doesn't leave anyone to-"

"I'll put Deliverance and Hatch on battle-management. They can fly an AWACS profile and coordinate the mission. I understand your concern, but I want our pilots to see you leading from the front."

The CAG grinned. "Happy to oblige."

_**Onboard MTL **_**Rebel**

_**Canceron Naval Shipyards, Helios Delta**_

"The shore crew foreman just said that the last transfer pipe is depressurized and secure," Tom Mandell, the BBT _Rebel_'s flight engineer, reported. The _Rebel_, a Gemini-type bulk freighter, had been loaded with fifty thousand tons of powdered aluminum to the shipyards for use in casting fighter hulls and other lightweight components. Now empty, the freighter was waiting to receive several pallets of computer equipment to transport to a defense station on Helios Alpha's outer rim.

"Gotcha," Paul Bryant, the bulk freighter's captain, nodded. He was seated in the _Rebel's_ cockpit, several feet forward of Mandell's station. "Is the reactor spun up?"

"Ninety percent, cap'n." The interphone rang, prompting a sigh from Mandell. The grizzled engineer reached forward, picking up the handset. "Flight deck, Mandell here." He listened for a moment before hanging up.

"Benny says the Fleet folks have that computer stuff onboard. The spares for the forward RCS system, too. They're closing the cargo bay hatch as we speak." Benny Hulman, the bulk freighter's loadmaster, was, along with a handful of other crewmen, aiding the Colonial Fleet personnel in loading cargo into the _Rebel_'s small cargo hold, located three decks below the cockpit and just forward of the hangar bay.

"Good. Give 'em five minutes and we'll push off. Lucy, do you have a course plotted?"

Lucy Peterson, the _Rebel_'s navigator, nodded. "I have a coordinate set and a vector to the jump point. Should take us about four hours."

Bryant acknowledged her before reviewing the cargo manifest yet another time. The Fleet was paying two fifty thousand cubits- cash- to the _Rebel_'s owning company in exchange for the safe transport of four tons of computer hardware. Bryant wouldn't have questioned it were it not for the cash payment and four Marine guards who had come aboard with the pallets. Even then, he could hardly complain. A quarter million, untaxed, for a low-weight, minimum cost hop was far from poor pay.

"Hatch sealed," Mandell said, seeing the indicator light on his all-analog console blink to green.

"Give separation call," Bryant instructed.

"Aye, aye." Mandell picked up the interphone handset yet again. "All hands, prepare for separation. All hands, prepare for separation. That is all."

Bryant flipped several switches on the overhead cockpit panel, releasing the maglocks securing the _Rebel_ to the shipyard's retractable gangway. He then fired a brief two-second pulse from the aft reaction control system thrusters, permitting the old bulk freighter to ease out of her slip before engaging her main engines. The captain carefully slid the quadruple throttle levels out of their idle position, and the four main fusion engines slowly glowed to life. He kept the power setting in the fifteen percent range until crossing the shipyards' inner exclusion zone, at which point he throttled up to the standard eighty-percent cruise setting.

"Canceron Naval, BBT _Rebel_. Be advised, we are exiting the outer perimeter," Bryant transmitted on the yards' traffic-control frequency, announcing the bulk freighter's final departure from its controlled space.

"Copy, BBT _Rebel_. Have a nice day, Canceron Naval, out," one of the on-duty traffic controllers replied.

"Well, can't say I'll miss this place," Mandell muttered, looking out the flight deck windows towards Canceron itself. "What do they call it, the Largest Democracy or something?"

"Yeah," Lucy snorted. "More like the Largest Corrupt Oligarchy, once you get down to it. So, what do you figure is actually in those containers the Fleet cares so much about? My guess is nukes."

"Nah," Mandell shook his head. "I was Ordnance when I was still in. The security protocols for nuclear-" he pronounced the word 'nukuler' -"weapons were tight. Real tight. Four Marines wouldn't cut it on a civilian ship. Too much room for something to go wrong. Besides, our radiation leak sensors would have gone off. I didn't have to cut any wires, so it ain't nukes."

"I'm thinking it might be some kind of mainframe system," Bryant surmised. "If it's that heavy and it's really computers, we're looking at something huge. You know that CNP thing the Fleet's all on about?"

"Yeah, how could I not?" Lucy frowned. "A flesh-and-blood navigator's always better. Computers glitch out all the time. They should know that- my grandma told me all the time about what the Cylons would do during the Uprising."

"Anyways, they've had to replace computers on some ships for the CNP to work, at least that's what I read in the Picon Current. Some just won't get it- it would cost too much. They guessed around ten percent of the fleet."

"Yeah, they're the ones that would survive," the female navigator sighed.

"If it's a station mainframe, it might be some kind of command thingy that they'd need to replace for the CNP."

"Might be," Mandell agreed. "Important, but not enough to warrant a full platoon of Marines or anything like that."

The flight deck door squealed, sliding aside on poorly-oiled rails. "What'd I miss?" Benny Hulman asked, wiping his hands on his grease-stained yellow coveralls before stepping into the cramped compartment.

"Oh, nothing, just our next scheme to rob a bank," Mandell said nonchalantly. "There's ten billion cubits sitting on a courier orbiting Aerilon...you missed the planning session, so I guess you'll just have to stay home."

"Aw, the hell I will!" the engineer laughed, sitting down at the cheap, laminate-top table by Lucy's station and the small flight deck galley. His expression turned more serious when he saw the briefcase of paper banknotes on the tabletop.

"Am I the only one with a weird feeling about that mainframe?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"How do you know it's a-" Lucy started.

"Unitary packaging on an electrically insulated container pallet? What the frak else could it be?"

"I guess when you put it that way..."

"It's not nukes, Lucy," Mandell shook his head. "Might be worse."

"I agree, there's something odd 'bout this whole deal, but how's a mainframe worse than a nuke?" Hulman frowned.

"It ain't the mainframe, it's what's on the thing," Bryant said.

"Software, you mean?"

"That's exactly what I mean. You don't sneak around with cash payments if you're doing something aboveboard."

"So, this is black?"

"If I were a betting man..."

_**Onboard Viper 717**_

_**In orbit of Aquaria, Helios Delta System**_

Duck sighed, having forgotten the sheer exhilaration that came with flying a Viper at the edge of its performance envelope. His Mark VII Block 30, callsign Diamondback 717, was situated at the head of a formation of seven other fighters of VF-102 'Diamondbacks'. The squadron had given an excellent account of itself the day before, and, accordingly, had earned the number-one slot on the day's primary operation.

Sixteen Mark VII Vipers had been launched, along with two Raptors on AWACS mission profiles and four more with Marine assault teams onboard. VF-201 'Hunters' was acting as a ready-reserve squadron, orbiting a holding point until needed. Finally, several additional Vipers were maintained on alert in the Ulysses' launch tubes.

The blue icon representing the 'hijacked' civilian ship, an Intersun liner supposedly carrying the Secretary of State, gradually drew closer on the Viper's central DRADIS screen. However, it was not alone. Six unidentified icons had arranged themselves in a spherical formation around the liner.

Duck flipped his wireless frequency selector to the GUARD emergency frequency, required to be monitored by all spacefaring vessels. "Unidentified vessels in the vicinity of Intersun 633 Heavy, this is Colonial Viper 717. Please identify and state your intentions," he said flatly. No use going in guns blazing if we don't have a positive ID, the CAG thought to himself.

"Colonial Viper 717, turn back now and we'll let you live," a clearly-disguised voice said on GUARD.

Well, that didn't sound friendly... "Ulysses, Diamondback 717. Be advised those bogies appear to be hostile," he reported to the battlestar.

"Copy, 717. Ulysses Actual here, engage at will."

"Roger that, Actual. Diamondacks, weapons hot."

Seven wireless calls came in from the assembled Vipers, all acknowledging the order.

"Diamondback, Raptor 490. We have positive ID on the bogies. They're Asp Mark Fives. Old but agile; recommend you engage at long range. DRADIS targeting data is incoming now."

As if on cue, the symbols representing the apparently hostile fighters gained a red diamond on the DRADIS display, signifying a target lock. The icons flipped, showing that the data was from a datalinked source, namely, the CNP's networking feature.

"Diamondbacks, fire at will," Duck ordered. He had already flipped on the 'MASTER ARM' switch, and simply selected two of the four Javelin anti-fighter missiles loaded into the Viper's magazines. "717, fox two, fox two," he called, pressing the firing button two times. Several other pilots made the same wireless calls, and a flurry of Javelins shot away from the Viper formation. The Vipers quickly scattered their formation, adopting varying flight vectors to complicate targeting for the enemy.

Three Asps flashed yellow, counted as 'destroyed' by the exercise computing system. Another was winged, but not completely destroyed. Their return volley, a storm of KEW rounds fired off blindly in the general direction of the Colonial fighters, minorly 'damaged' one Viper with a lucky hit, but otherwise accomplished nothing.

"Two bandits left," Squirrel, flying 626, reported. "I think we can-"

"Colonial fighters, this Asp 381 of the Aerilon Republican Army. We have target lock on your liner. Disengage now; we will kill your Secretary of State if any weapons fire is detected."

Damn, Duck thought. The exercise planners came up with a new one here.

"Acknowledged, Asp 381. We are disengaging," he stated.

"Sir?" Viper 245's pilot asked, hesitant.

"245, we're just buying time. I'm not about to let them get away with this," the CAG reasurred him before switching to Ulysses' frequency. "Ulysses Actual, Diamondback 717. Did you copy their last?"

"Affirmative, Duck."

"Sir, recommend we launch some of those Block 50s." The Viper Mark VII Block 50 incorporated limited DAM, or DRADIS-absorbent material, in its fuselage skin. Combined with reworked avionics, the fighter was detectable at less than half the range of an older-block Mark VII. Ulysses carried around eight, assigned to VF-251 'T-Bolts' on an operational-evaluation basis.

"Agreed. I'll call up Chief Adams and get 'em in the tubes."

"Roger, Actual." The CAG looked down again, checking that the other Vipers under his command had, in fact, disengaged. "Raptor 490, Diamondback 717. Can you run the detection math on a Block 50 for a stock-model Asp?" he asked, hoping that Hatch would have the necessary data on her Raptor's expanded data library. As part of its secondary AWACS role, the Raptor's onboard computers were preloaded with a far greater quantity of tactical data than a Viper or other similar craft.

"Affirm, 717," the female ECO replied. "I'm setting it up now."

"Good to hear, 490."

"Sir, I overheard the exchange on GUARD. I reccommend nailing the liner's FTL drive simultaneously or they'll jump out on us."

"Thanks, Hatch. Good point."

"Colonial fighters, this is ARA Asp 381. We will free your Secretary of State in exchange for fifty million cubits and twelve tactical nuclear warheads.

"He's got to be frakking kidding me," Kleiner muttered. "If this weren't an exercise..."

"Well, it is, so let's play it clean. Bad-mouthing my home or not," Murray said, picking up the wireless handset. "We just need to buy enough time for the Vipers to take out their fighters."

"Right."

"ARA Asp 381, this is the commanding officer of the Colonial battlestar Ulysses. I copy your request. Do you have the ability to receive small craft?"

"We do. I want a Raptor docked with the cash and the nukes in fifteen minutes. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly clear."

"I can have a Raptor docked in ten."

"So do it."

Kleiner looked shocked. "You're going through with it?"

The commander lowered the handset. "Did I ever say I'd put anything on the Raptor?"

"Of course not."

"Marines."

"You sly bastard," the XO chuckled.

"Sir, PriFly reports low-observable Vipers launching now," Lieutenant Wolfe reported.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Kleiner nodded. "Have them launch another Raptor with a Marine fireteam onboard."

"Aye, sir."

"And now," Murray said, looking up at the DRADIS plot, "we wait."

"Make sure those Block 50s keep out of detection range," Deliverance warned Hatch.

"I heard you the fifth time," the ECO laughed. "They're well beyond DRADIS range for the Asps. Besides, that Raptor is under five minutes out."

"Sure hope so..."

"Relax. They'll dock, the Vipers fire, and it's down to the Marines."

"You ever heard that old saying, 'no plan survives contact with the enemy?'" Deliverance asked.

"Of course I have. This one is foolproof."

"That's what they all say," he shook his head.

A burst of quick chatter came over the GUARD wireless frequency. "Sounds like they're docking now," Hatch mused, fiddling with the frequency fine-tune knob on her electronics console.

"Yeah, I show positive contact," Deliverance said, having aimed the Raptor's high-powered infrared sensor onto the liner. "Give 'em two, then roll in the Block 50s."

"Copy that," the ECO chirped. "I'm letting the assault Raptor crews know; they'll go in first."'

The first Raptor could be seen to enter the liner's spacious cargo hold, which then closed and repressurized. Deliverance whistled softly, thinking of the firefight the Marines would most likely find themselves in momentarily.

"T-Bolt 113 and 341, you're cleared hot onto bandits one through three," Hatch said. "Be advised we have a firing solution on the liner's FTL; sending it over now."

"Copy, Raptor 490. T-Bolt 113, engaging," the flight leader replied. The DRADIS icons representing his and his wingman's fighters suddenly darted towards the 'hijacked' liner. In an actual engagement, KEW muzzle flashes would have been accompanied by numerous Javelin missiles streaking away towards their targets. For now, Hatch settled for seeing the remaining Asps' DRADIS icons flash yellow. The targeting data on the liner's FTL drive was also accurate, rendering the hijacked craft unable to escape.

Hatch quickly directed the assault Raptors away from their holding tracks and onto a course for the Intersun liner. One by one, the utility craft used their RCS thrusters to precisely match their speed and attitude with the target, after which the landing mag-locks were used to anchor to the hull. Each Raptor's retractable boarding skirt also lowered, allowing Marines with cutting torches to access the interior of the 'hijacked' vessel whether its crew wanted them to or not.

"Ulysses, Raptor 490," she called over the wireless. "Be advised, we have a live wireless link with the Marines now, sir." Their helmet-mounted communications systems were not powerful enough to allow full-on ship-to-ship communications; accordingly, a Raptor- 490 in this case- would be providing a relay link to the Ulysses. This would allow the Marine battalion commander back onboard to directly coordinate the boarding operation from the safety of the battlestar's CIC.

"Copy, Raptor 490," Lieutenant Wolfe said. "We're receiving."

_**Flight Deck, BBT Rebel**_

_**Approach vector to Cybele Station, Helios Alpha System**_

"Could someone please explain to me what the frak a VIPR team is?" Lucy asked, frustrated with the seemingly random inspection request that had forced the Rebel to expend several dozen tons more fuel than budgeted, and delayed its arrival at the station by approximately an hours.

"Dunno," Bryant shrugged. "Some kind of Marine boarding team, I guess." The freighter captain glanced at the cockpit DRADIS display, watching the blue icon representing a Raptor cautiously approach.

"Sir, VIPR is a Homeland Security unit for boarding and search work," one of the Marine security troops explained. "And, off the record, I hate the bastards. Arrogant motherfrakkers, and there's a lot of rumors about 'em."

"Rumors?" Mandell sat up.

"General conspiracy-theory stuff. Most people don't put any stock in it, but I still don't trust those guys." The marine fidgeted with his helmet chin strap, wondering if he, perhaps, had said too much.

"Docking request from that Raptor," Bryant announced. "Tom, depressurize and open the starboard hangar," he ordered.

"On it." Mandell flipped several switches at the engineering station, dumping the hangar's atmosphere into holding tanks and opening the armored hatch. "Hatch's open."

"Okay...Corporal, take two Marines and meet those clowns."

The Marine nodded, immediately leaving the bridge for the freighter's lower decks.

Several minutes later, after receiving an interphone call from one of the Marines, Bryant picked up his civilian-spec M22 rifle, slung it over his shoulder, and climbed down the thirty-foot ladder to the hangar deck. The sealed divider between the two bays was still in place, on account of the Raptor having just docked.

A dun-colored craft in the markings of VAQ-136 'Gauntlets', the Navy Raptor was unarmed, unlike the VIPR team that had just exited its rear passenger compartment. The four Homeland Security personnel were equipped similarly to the Marines, but wore full-face helmets and had DHS patches on their fatigues' shoulders. A visible friction existed between the two groups, and Bryant could see Corporal Hollis, the Maine fireteam leader, running one finger over his M22's safety. Benny, the Rebel's loadmaster, looked furious at the armed HomeSec personnel standing in his hangar.

"Let's get this over with," Bryant muttered. "We've got a delivery to make for y'all's boss, so get to it."

One of the VIPR men nodded, prompting the others to remove an object similar in appearance to a very large pistol from their web gear. "Where's the cargo access?" the VIPR team leader asked Bryant, correctly inferring his position as the Rebel's captain.

Bryant pointed towards an interlock hatch at the rear of the hangar. "There. Make it quick; every single ore silo's empty. The mainframe's one frame forward of here."

The boarding team split into two elements. One, accompanied by a pair of Marines, headed aft for the access tunnel running between the bulk freighter's four separate cargo silos. The other started for the cargo bay.

"Ah, 'scuse me," Hollis said, stopping the VIPR team leader in his tracks. "We've got sensitive cargo onboard. I'll need positive identification before I can allow you into that compartment.

"The frak you do," the Homeland Security soldier snorted, his contempt for the Marine glaringly obvious.

"All right then, by Fleet regs section two, subsection thirty-nine, you are under military arrest for attempting to access a security-restricted compartment without providing proof of authorization. Captain Bryant, should I transport these men to the brig?"

One of the Raptor crew, sitting on his craft's stub wing, tried but failed to suppress a chuckle.

"What- I- you don't-" the VIPR leader spluttered.

"ID. Now; that was not an idle threat," Hollis snapped, raising the muzzle of his rifle by an inch or so.

Both Homeland Security personnel sighed, producing standard-issue card keys with photographic identification.

"All right, then," Hollis said, faking a cheerful demeanor. "Follow me and we can continue your inspection."

The Marines led the two VIPR men through the heavy hatch into the cargo bay, Bryant following behind with his rifle, and Benny with a crowbar ostensibly for opening crates for inspection.

Benny gestured towards several massive pallets secured to the rail-mount cargo-handling system. "There they are," he said. "Knock yourselves out."

"Literally," Bryant swore he could hear the other Marine whisper under his breath.

The HomeSec personnel waved the pistol-like objects over the pallets, revealing their identity as handheld x-ray scanners/radiation detectors. This continued for several minutes before the team leader motioned to his subordinate, indicating an all-clear, at least for that compartment.

"Avionics bay?" he asked Bryant.

"I don't think so," the freighter captain shook his head.

"This is a mandat-"

"Fleet regs, section three, subsection twenty-seven, inspections of military-contracted vessels are directed by the senior Colonial Forces serviceman onboard," Hollis said. "My fireteam and I have been aboard this vessel for five hours and conducted a safety/security inspection upon embarking, as is standard procedure for a contracted vessel. This inspection is redundant and quite frankly a waste of all of our time; you are ordered to leave this vessel and return to your facility of origin."

"I-"

Bryant unslung his rifle. "My dad always told me to listen to Marines. I think it's about time you learned that lesson. Get the frak off my ship or I will not hesitate to defend myself."

The two VIPR men stood, stock-still, for several seconds. The freighter captain thought he heard a few whispers of wireless communication from their helmet sets, but could not be entirely sure. Either way, it was irrelevant as the Homeland Security personnel quickly exited the cargo bay and access tunnel, snapped something unheard at the Raptor crew, and boarded the small craft inside of three minutes.

All members of the freighter crew returned to the flight deck in preparation for depressurizing the bay, allowing the Raptor to exit. Two of the Marines took positions in the cargo bay, while Hollis and another accompanied the crew to the flight deck.

"Atmosphere dumped, hatches open," Mandell called. "Raptor 282 is away."

"We've got re-clearance onto Cybele," Lucy announced. "Take course zero-eight-niner, carom zero-one-five.

"Zero-eight-niner, zero-one-five," Bryant acknowledged, swinging himself back into the pilot's seat and executing a handful of precise thruster burns to adopt the approach course. "On course."

The female navigator nodded.

Slowly, the Fleet station came into view. Arranged as a ringlike structure with a half-dozen docking slips along the perimeter of the ring, a handful of ships were already docked. A contracted liner and a Pandarus-class Missilestar were situated in adjacent slips, but were not the most interesting of the vessels.

"All back full," Lucy called.

"All back full." Bryant pulled back on the quadruple throttles, firing retro-thrusters to slow the lightly-loaded bulk freighter to a safe docking velocity.

"Hold speed."

A minute later, the Rebel glided into its assigned slip, next to a peculiar warship. Bryant pulled back on the throttles again, bringing the freighter to a halt inside the slip. Retractable gangways slowly extended and locked into position as the freighter captain engaged the mag-lock seals.

"All right," Bryant grinned. "One secure cargo delivered, a quarter-million in the bag." He allowed himself to look over at the vessel the Rebel was sharing her slip with. She was approximately the size of a medium-light Battlestar, but nearly all similarities ended there. The ship was an angular, bladelike vessel, with conformal launch bays scabbed into either flank. She was painted a uniform dark grey, with an odd metallic sheen, and had no visible weapons aside from a half-dozen missile launch tubes on her sides. Even more strangely, her engines were almost completely shrouded and covered in numerous grille-like baffles. In dark grey, nearly black lettering on her sides, she proclaimed her name to be Banshee.

"Now that's a damn weird-looking ship," Mandell laughed.

"She actually ain't bad-looking," Bryant mused. "I'm just guessing here, but I reckon she's stealth."

"Good guess," the chief engineer agreed. "I heard about this kind of stuff while I was still in, but never really thought I'd see it."

"Stealth doesn't mean invisible," the the freighter captain pointed out. "Hey, Lucy, any sign of her on DRADIS?"

"Nope," the navigator laughed. "Just a black hole. Infrared barely sees her, either. My guess is that you wouldn't see her coming unless you were looking for her.

Mandell picked up the interphone handset. "Hey, Benny, what's the deal on the cargo offloading?" A moment later, the loadmaster squawked a reply over the din of forklifts and miscellaneous cargo-handling equipment.

"All right, good. Did you catch what it's for?"

"I said, what is it for?" the engineer asked, forced to raise his voice to be heard.

"Okay! Thanks." Mandell hung up the interphone. "Gods," he muttered.

"What'd Benny say he heard?"

"One of the Fleet techs said it was a replacement mainframe computer for the station. Guess I was right."

"Damn techno-junk," Lucy grumbled. "It's gonna bite 'em in the ass, you mark my words."

_**CIC, Battlestar Ulysses**_

_**Helios Alpa System**_

Several days later, after the conclusion of SILVERFLAG Phase One, the Ulysses and her battlestar group executed an FTL jump into the outer rim of the Helios Alpha system. As per Fleet procedure, the group entered the outer rim to receive orders from one of the command stations located along the system's edge.

"Sir, the computer's returning an error from that message. Again." Lieutenant Wolfe said, attempting to resolve the issue for the third time. "It's that damn CNP format." As far as the tactical officer could tell, the station's automated wireless system was broadcasting only in a data format designed for CNP-equipped computers.

"Well, then ask the idiot for a flash transmission!" Commander Andrew Murray growled, frustrated with the Cybele's apparent inability to account for the older vessels in the Colonial Fleet.

"I tried, sir. It's automated and won't accept our input."

"Get a direct line with Cybele Main," the battlestar commander said, his calm tone hiding the utter fury he was trying to suppress.

"Aye, sir," Wolfe said, quickly switching frequencies. "I have a line."

Murray picked up the handset. "Cybele Station, this is Ulysses Actual."

"Good afternoon, Ulysses, Cybele Main."

"Cybele Main, please explain to me why in the hell your automated dispatch wireless is only broadcasting CNP data packages."

"Wait one, sir."

Murray stared directly at the DRADIS polar plot, looking as if he was trying to break the impact-resistant polycarbonate with sheer anger alone. Ensign Dremmond turned from her navigation console, looking concerned.

"Ulysses Actual, Cybele Main. Be advised we just exchanged mainframes in compliance with directives from the UCNP Fleet 2000 program office. Automated broadcasts are CNP data package-only."

"How about the ten percent of the fleet that cannot receive CNP data?" the commander asked, trying to keep calm and avoid referring to the UCNP Fleet 2000 program office as several hundred worthless overpaid insufferable technocratic Caprican city-rat frakheads. Some old habits died hard.

"Ahh...VLF flash is commencing now, sir."

Wolfe flashed a thumbs-up. "Receiving," he said in a low voice.

"Thank you, Cybele Main. Ulysses Actual, out." Murray slammed the handset down. "Gods!" he exclaimed. "There ain't a lick of common sense in any one of those idiots!"

"I'm not disagreeing, Andy," Kleiner shook his head. "This could get people killed, you know. What if there's a war on? Are we going to have to berate station crews to get workable orders dispatches? This is frakking ridiculous."

"Dispatch, sir," Wolfe announced, handing Murray the flash printout containing the battlestar group's current orders. The commander skimmed it over, his demeanor softening somewhat.

"We're to dock at the Scorpian Fleet Shipyards. The Missilestar Axylus is to join BSG-67; we're then to jump into Helios Delta and conduct a six-week patrol orbit in the Aerilon-Sagitarron region," he read, summarizing the report.

"We're goin' home," Kleiner said, seeming quite pleased.

Murray picked up the wireless handset, flipping a switch to set it to PA mode. "All hands, all hands, this is Commander Murray. In less than six hours, we will be docking at the Scorpian Fleet Shipyards to accept a new vessel, the Axylus, into our battlestar group. We will then be conducting a six-week low-readiness patrol in Helios Delta; liberty will be permitted."

The various officers and enlisted personnel in the CIC cheered.

"Well, I ain't complaining," Deliverance grinned several seconds later. "Birmingham sure beats Caprica City."

One of the other pilots in the VAQ-142 ready room flashed him an odd look.

"More tractors," Krunch explained.

The Aerilonian Raptor pilot laughed. "Exactly. There's more tractors. All I care about, actually."

"Thanks for admitting it," Hatch said. "Here I was thinking it was all just a joke..."

"No problem," Deliverance said, picking up a model of a Raptor and a Viper from the operational-planning table at the front of the ready room, next to the laptop computer controlling the overhead projector. He held both models at arm's length, placing the Viper behind the Raptor and moving them in unison. "See?" he asked expectantly. "Space tractor."

The handful of Grey Wolves pilots gathered laughed.

"If we hook up a BRP and have the Viper hook up, we could probably tow it in an emergency. Seriously!"

Hatch nodded, finding the idea at least somewhat feasible. An BRP, or buddy refueling pod, was a system designed for the Raptor and some Viper variants that allowed the craft to act as a refueling tanker for other small craft. It used a drogue basket trailed behind the tanker on a long carbon-nanotube hose, which the refuelee would use as a target for its retractable refueling probe. Once the hookup was complete, tylium fuel would be pumped from tanker's internal or external fuel cells and into the receiving craft. Some larger tankers, usually based off passenger liners, existed, but could not be carried aboard most battlestars due to their considerable size. "I guess it would probably work."

"That's the spirit," Krunch said.

_**CIC, Battlestar Banshee**_

_**Cybele Station, Helios Alpha**_

_**1 month BCH**_

Commander Pete Nichols, the Banshee's captain, paced his ship's cramped CIC, visibly nervous. He had just received a highly-classified report from the Office of Naval Intelligence regarding a paramilitary terrorist organization with ties to the STO. Allegedly, the organization, the so-called Gemenon Liberation Front, had obtained one or more tactical nuclear weapons and were planning to strike high-value targets on the surface of Caprica.

The report was based on various HUMINT, SIGINT, and hard sensor data on a station in Helios Delta, closest to Sagitarron. The Banshee, as one of the handful of stealthy battlestars in existence, and the only one not currently undergoing a refit, naturally received the call.

"CAG, what's the status on those Habus?" Nichols asked Lieutenant Commander David 'Breaker' Kitchen, the commander of the stealth battlestar's air group.

Breaker grimaced. "Four...mostly airworthy, sir. The rest, not even close. Should I have them loaded anyways?"

The commander nodded. "Yes. Have the rest of your crew onboard as well; we'll be departing in under an hour."

"Yessir." The Habu was a stealth fighter only just entering service, and still experiencing teething troubles. The Banshee's complement of eight were the reason for its stopover at Cybele; the station boasted some maintenance and fabrication equipment that the reconnaissance/surveillance battlestar did not. Recently, an issue had cropped up over poor-quality forgings in the Habu's rear fuselage. Banshee did not possess the proper specifications or blueprints to manufacture the components, and the installation of replacements was a time-consuming endeavor requiring something approaching a complete teardown of the fighter's structure.

"Mister Benson, weapons status?" Nichols asked the battlestar's weapons officer.

"Seventy-five percent on KEWs, twenty-four ASMs loaded, sir."

"Engineering?"

Lieutenant Nadia Christophe looked up from her console, currently displaying a diagram of detected maintenance problems across the ship. "Reactor and engines are green, life support is green, minor fault on the navigation computer, but we're working on it. All critical systems are green or patched," she reported.

"Nav?"

"Coordinates for destination are plotted, sir. Valid for ninety more minutes."

"Excellent."

"Launching Habus now," Breaker reported as all four of the squadron's operational fighters were fired from Banshee's starboard launch tubes. "Designate Marauder 112, 115, 114, and 118. Vipers away, designate Dragon flight."

"DRADIS has multiple contacts, Adders, vicinity of Amphion Station," Lieutenant Tracy Hall, Banshee's tactical officer, reported. "Sir, Dragon is receiving multiple hostile challenges and several Adders are breaking towards them."

"Understood," Commander Nichols said. "Helm, all ahead full, course zero-three-six carom zero-two-zero. Port roll four-zero degrees," he ordered. Almost immediately, but nearly imperceptibly to those onboard, the stealth battlestar pitched upwards and rolled along its lateral axis, presenting its full firepower to the station. "CAG, Dragon is to engage bandits."

"Aye, sir," Breaker said. "Dragon 224, make your course three-three-two carom three-four-five. Commit intercept."

"Dragon 224, Judy," the Viper squadron leader reported.

"Cleared hot, Dragon."

"Copy, Banshee. Engaging."

Several thousand miles from the battlestar's position, eight Mk. VII Vipers of VF-192 'Dragons' tore into the formation of Adders. The Adder was a somewhat newer design, roughly on par with a Mk. VI. It was similar in appearance to a Viper, only somewhat more angular and with four stub wings arranged in an x-like pattern.

In contrast to the Asps 'engaged' by VF-251 during SILVERFLAG, Adders were serious and extremely lethal modern fighters. Two of the group of six exploded at the merge, but Dragon 452 was reduced to a drifting hulk by a fragmentation missile that peppered its skin with hundreds of alloy fragments. Dragon 224 shot another down with a well-timed KEW burst, shearing the fighter's nosecone off and ripping apart its x-shaped wing configuration, but Dragon 127 lost a large chunk of its vertical stabilizer to a KEW round that also vented a tylium cell into vacuum.

Approximately two minutes later, Lieutenant Hall informed Nichols that the first group of Asps had been engaged and destroyed for one Viper lost and another damaged. 452's pilot had ejected, along with two of the GLF pilots.

"CAG, have Marauder and Dragon approach Amphion Station. Launch the alert fighters."

"Aye, sir," Breaker said. "Marauder, Dragon, you are to rendezvous at the initial point. Use dispersed formation; we have additional Adders and may be dealing with antifighter missiles on the station." He switched from wireless to interphone. PriFly, PriFly, this is CAG. Launch alert-five, repeat, launch alert-five."

"Argonaut is launching," he reported, glancing back at the battlestar's commander. "When will we launch the assault element?"

"Once those damn fighters are destroyed," Nichols stated. "Are all Thunderbirds ready for launch?"

"All six, sir. The Marines are onboard; they're just waiting for the go-ahead. I have to say, it would be a lot easier to just blow this place to dust," the CAG pointed out.

"I don't disagree, but orders are orders. We're supposed to recover the warheads." All six of the Banshee's Thunderbird dropships currently airworthy, out of eight total, had been loaded with a full Marine platoon to facilitate that particular operation. The Thunderbirds, while well-armed, simply could not stand up to numerous, sophisticated hostile fighters, at least not while trying to dock.

"All Argonaut Vipers are away," Breaker said. "They're closing on Amphion to support."

"Excellent," Nichols replied. "Helm, all back full. Dead halt."

"Aye, sir." The helmsman pulled the Banshee's throttles back to their maximum reverse position, bringing the battlestar to a halt in under a minute.

"Habu and Dragon are engaging," Lieutenant Hall said. "Looks like there's missiles on Amphion...we just lost a Viper. No beacon," she said sadly.

"ETA on Argonaut?" Nichols asked the CAG.

"Under five."

"Frak. That's not soon enough. Mister Benson, extend main KEWs and prepare to fire flak rounds against Amphion. Helm, forty percent ahead."

Both crewmen acknowledged the orders. On the Banshee's upper surfaces, serrated-edge hatches opened, allowing the battlestar's primary automatic KEW batteries to be raised on their hydraulic mounts. Ordinarily concealed to avoid presenting a large DRADIS signature, the weapons gave the small battlestar firepower comparable to that of many Gunstars.

"Firing solution achieved, sir," Benson reported. "Should I give the order?"

"Fire," the commander ordered, eliminating any possibility of confusion.

"Aye." All twenty KEWs opened fire, requiring minute thruster burns to compensate for their substantial combined recoil. The guns were fired more slowly when used with flak rounds, as the massive shrapnel clouds created removed much of the need for a large volume of fire.

Nichols grinned despite the situation as the turrets' steady thrum echoed throughout the ship.

Taking care not to fire through the ongoing 'furball' of Vipers, Habus, and Adders, the stream of flak rounds impacted the station, scouring its surface and destroying several point-defense missile installations that had been harassing the Colonial fighters.

"Two bandits remaining," Breaker called.

"Most PD emplacements are offline," Hall said. "It's just the Adders now."

The CAG said something into his headset before turning the Nichols. "Sir, I'm pulling back Dragon and having Argonaut wait it out. They just killed the last two bandits and the Habus can work the point-defense safely. Recommend we launch the Thunderbirds as well," he said.

"Good call. Launch the Thunderbirds," the commander ordered.

"Thunderbirds launching."

Approximately ten minutes later, the first of the Thunderbird dropships were sealing themselves to Amphion Station in preparation for boarding. Habus and Argonaut Vipers buzzed past, providing security for the assault force.

"Sir, the first Marine team has landed," Lieutenant Hall announced. "They're reporting no contacts. Radiological detectors are reading faint traces; I'm talking to one of the WMD team leaders. He says that they think they have a rough location and are moving to search it."

"All right. Keep me posted," Nichols said, beginning to tally losses from the battle to secure the station's local area. He had just received word that the Viper pilot shot down earlier had been safely taken aboard a CSAR Raptor when Hall jumped, surprised. "Marines are engaged- they're saying that it's- Cylons!" she exclaimed. "Centurions, Uprising-era! Dozens of them!"


	5. Chapter 5: Schism

**_Battlestar Ulysses  
Scorpian Naval Shipyards  
Helios Gamma System  
3 Weeks BCH_**

"What in the hell?" Commander Andrew Murray muttered aloud, stopping midway through reading an after-action report written by Commander Nichols of the Battlestar _Banshee_. The Ulysses' commander, seated in an armchair in his quarters, shook his head in utter disbelief. "Cylons?" he sighed, rereading the offending passage several times.  
_Two companies of Marines were landed on Amphion Station via Thunderbird dropship to locate and recover suspected nuclear WMDs. Upon entering the station, radiation signatures similar to B43 tactical thermonuclear weapons were detected. At this point, the Marines made contact with a hostile force, determined to be composed of thirty-six Cylon Centurions. The Centurions were engaged and destroyed with three Marines KIA and seven WIA, including one platoon commander. Further investigation by Banshee's ONI contingent determined that the Centurions were armored variants of the pre-Uprising U-87 Cyber Combat Unit. Serial numbers recovered off destroyed units were traced back to pre-Unification Caprican military purchases. Markings suggested command subordination to the Department of Homeland Security.  
_"Something's wrong here," Murray sighed. "I thought we scrapped most of the old Toasters after the Uprising-" he was interrupted by a knock on the metal hatch.  
"Come in," the commander said. Lieutenant Commander Nicholas Kleiner, the Ulysses' XO, swung the hatch open and stepped inside.  
"Sir, you read that, too?" he asked, gesturing towards the after-action report.  
"Of course I did. It was distributed to just about every officer above O-4 grade."  
"So I'm not the only person who finds the whole HomeSec thing a little odd?" Kleiner sat down in the armchair opposite Murray.  
"Hell no. It's damn weird, but markings are only markings. They ain't conclusive proof of anything."  
"Well, what's the worst-case scenario here? To you, what's the absolute worst thing that could come of it, that we could get thrown into?"  
"Worst-case scenario?" Murray repeated, thoughtfully gazing towards the ceiling. "Worst-case, that report is right and Homeland Security's got Cylons on hand to deal with the Fleet. If those got through, Gods know how many else did."  
"They could have a private army..." Kleiner froze.  
Murray shook his head, trying to knock some sense into himself. "Motive, though. Adar wouldn't have his goons pull anything like this without a reason- he's too calculating for that."  
"Motive? Well, we all know he wants to cut the ever-living frak out of the Fleet budget. If Gemenonian terrorists with U-87s managed to set nukes off on Caprica, he might claim that it's proof that we can't protect that Colonies, that his state-security guys are all we need any more, and announce the unilateral retirement of a half-dozen Battlestars."  
"I wouldn't put it past that weasel," the commander sighed. "That ain't a bad motive at all. Makes Gemenon look bad, justifies cutting the Fleet, concentrates military power in the executive...sounds like a frakking Adar campaign poster."  
Kleiner chuckled despite himself. "I don't think we're supposed to think like that, sir."  
"At least we think, Nick. At least we think."

_**BAT Rebel  
Sagitarron Orbit, Helios Gamma System  
3 Weeks BCH**_

Paul Bryant kept one eye on the _Rebel_'s DRADIS display, watching the contact marked 'Raptor 828' close with the bulk freighter.  
"Nice to see someone doin' this properly," Mandell muttered. "Better than those VIPR frakheads."  
Raptor 828 was ferrying a Sagitarron National Guard inspection team to the _Rebel_, a normal part of the random-inspection routine conducted as a deterrent to would-be smugglers. Not that the freighter carried anything out of the ordinary; her holds were laden with forty thousand tons of crystalline phenol for use in plastics production.  
The interphone rang, and was quickly answered by the chief engineer. "That Raptor just docked," he said, returning the handset to its cradle.  
"All right, I'll be in the hangar if you need me," Bryant informed him. The captain stood from his seat, checking that the autopilot was engaged, and descended the ladder to the primary hangar deck. He had made the conscious decision to leave his rifle behind, being quite familiar with the difference between federal personnel and the individual Colonies' military forces.  
In contrast to the late-model Raptor employed by the DHS VIPR team, the National Guard had made the trip from planetside on an older-model craft, painted stone grey with a Sagitarron-flag fin flash, and faded from years of exposure to the harsh sun. A half-dozen Guardsmen, wearing tan arid-environment camouflage, disembarked along with two Colonial Orbital Guard law-enforcement personnel.  
One of the Guardsmen, wearing a sergeant's insignia on his fatigues, stepped forward to greet Bryant.  
"Afternoon, sir. I'm Staff Sergeant Turner," he introduced himself.  
Bryant shook the sergeant's hand. "Paul Bryant; I'm the captain of the _Rebel_. How can I help you?"  
"We're here to conduct a basic safety/security inspection." The Guardsman presented his military ID card. "Cargo check and safety-system only."  
"All right, then," Bryant nodded. "I'll have Benny here help y'all out with the cargo; which safety systems are we looking at?"  
Turner looked down at the paper checklist he held. "ELB, fire suppression, and auxiliary craft."  
"Simple enough." The freighter captain began walking forward, entering a security code and opening the hatch to the small cargo bay. He turned to one side, flipping open the cover over a small console. "Here's the lower fire-suppression control," he explained.  
"Can I run a test routine?" Turner asked. Two of the Guardsmen and one of the COG inspectors had followed.  
"Sure thing."  
The sergeant looked over the console, hitting the 'TEST' button. Immediately, the fire alarm buzzers sounded, while the shipwide schematic on the console displayed green lights for each of the local inert-gas tanks. In the event of a fire, the tanks would remove oxygen from affected compartments, effectively smothering the conflagration.  
Turner nodded, checking off a box on his clipboard. "Fire-suppression checks out."  
"The ELB is co-located with the hangar; we'll head back there," Bryant explained, turning on a heel and walking aft to the hangar bay.  
Next to the port-side bay door, a small tube denoted the Emergency Locator Beacon launch system, designed to mark the freighter's location in the event of an onboard emergency. It, too, possessed a small diagnostic board, which Turner quickly powered up. The COG inspector looked over the inspection paperwork stored in a small locker, appearing satisfied.  
"Don't you go shooting off my ELB," Bryant warned lightheartedly.  
The Guard sergeant laughed. "I'll try not to, sir. Looks good, though. All diagnostics are green. Auxiliary craft, now?"  
"Yep. We've got three onboard. Total capacity of twenty-two; our crew size is sixteen." The freighter captain led the small inspection contingent over to the other small craft parked alongside the Sagitarron Guard Raptor. Two were civilian-spec Raptors, intended for utility, courier, and scout work, while the other was...rather different.  
"Is that a-" Turner began.  
"Yep," Bryant grinned. "Mark Six Viper, Block 40 precision-attack. Got her from CFARRD."  
"Armed?"  
"Just the KEWs. Ammunition's stored in the cargo bay. Registration's in the cockpit for all of 'em, by the way." Each of the inspection contingent's members examined one of the auxiliary craft, noting the registration papers and airworthiness certificates. Lightly-armed small craft were becoming increasingly common in the Colonies, due to the ever-present threat of terrorism and piracy.  
"That's a damn fine machine you've got there, sir," Turner said, looking over the Viper. It still bore the markings from its time with VMFA-225 'Vikings', a Marine squadron formerly based on Libran, and was painted in the standard Marine dark grey.  
"Thanks, Sergeant. Is that about all?"  
Turner glanced over at the Raptors, seeing the two other Guardsmen exiting. One flashed a thumbs-up. "It is, sir," the sergeant nodded. "I just need to wait for the cargo-inspection detail to return."  
"Okay."  
"You buy her at auction?"  
"The Viper? Yep, I did. Three years ago; her squadron was deactivating. Damn Adar, but he gave me a good opportunity here."  
"I hear you, sir."  
"Only a half-million cubits, too. The Corps took out all the sensors; I scavenged a DRADIS off a retired Mark Six...here, actually. The reserve depot- CFARR, they call it- on Sagitarron basically gives 'em away."  
Turner chuckled. "Yeah, I'd go buy myself a Mark Four or something, but it'd take about twenty years' worth of paychecks if I felt like eating on the side."  
"Sarge, the cargo checks out," one of the Guardsmen called, emerging from the cargo access interlock along with Hulman and the other Guard personnel. He carried a portable mass-spectrometer, commonly utilized for checking bulk cargo. "Phenol, carbolic acid, whatever. It's what it's supposed to be."  
Turner checked off one last box before scribbling a signature and handing the clipboard and pen to Bryant. The freighter captain quickly signed off and returned the clipboard.  
"That'll be all, sir," the Guard sergeant said. "Thanks for your time."  
"No problem." Bryant motioned towards Benny, who darted into the lower engineering control room. As the Guard and COG inspection contingent boarded their Raptor, Bryant climbed up the ladder back to the flight deck. Several minutes later, the starboard hangar had been depressurized, the Raptor had departed, and the _Rebel_ was on a course to the bulk cargo terminal station in orbit over Sagitarron.  
"Those guys a bit better than those VIPR clowns?" Lucy asked.  
"You have no idea," Bryant chuckled. "They didn't try to invite themselves into the avionics bay."  
The navigator laughed. "I noticed you left the M22 up here, too."  
"That I did." Bryant returned to his seat, quickly checking over the controls. "What's our ETA on Nireus Terminal?"  
Lucy glanced at the course she had plotted, then at the atomic chronometer. "Three hours, fifteen minutes. Give or take a few."  
"Good enough. Any Cylons or computer viruses popping up?"  
The navigator squinted. "Not funny."  
"Maybe to you it's not."  
"Still, you didn't have any of your ships use CNP," Lucy needled him.  
"What can I say? I guess you're rubbing off on me..." Bryant shrugged.

**_Battlestar Ulysses  
Scorpian Fleet Shipyards  
3 Weeks BCH_**

"So this is honestly a possibility?" Duck asked in disbelief. "Adar's goons could seriously be fighting the Fleet using Centurions?"  
"Seriously," Kleiner sighed, shaking his head.  
"I don't believe it- or, I don't want to. But I trust Nichols; he was the XO on _Arcas_ a few years ago; I ran VF-86 back then. He's a good guy. Still, something's off here."  
"How so?" Murray asked, genuinely interested in the third opinion offered by his CAG.  
"You don't give that kind of information as general-release without some serious investigation. How do we know these aren't DHS Centurions from right before the Uprising?" Duck mused.  
"Homeland Security didn't exist up until '92," Murray pointed out.  
"Oh, frak. You're right." The CAG sighed. "Well, that changes things."  
"Another thing, though," Kleiner spoke up. "We've had a lot of political tension lately, thanks to the Adar administration. I mean within the fleet. Loyalists, free thinkers... well, I guess that tells you where I stand- it's gotten fairly polarized from what I've seen. If this got out- which it did, thank [i]someone[/i] for that- it could drive a further wedge between us and them."  
"That would be bad?" Duck asked.  
The XO sighed. "Politically, the Fleet's divided fairly well along home colony lines. If there's one thing you do _not_ want to see, it's a regional leadership schism."  
"Oh, frak."

Deliverance hung his helmet on its peg in the VAQ-142 ready room, wiping his brow on the sleeve of his flight suit. He had just ferried a load of newcomers to the _Ulysses_ up from operational qualification on Tauron- the very definition of a milk run. Two of said newcomers had wound up with the Grey Wolves, replacing one ECO who had been rotated onto the Invincible, and a pilot who converted to Vipers.  
Lieutenant Pierce 'Walrus' Dennison, a Libran with an impressive mustache, was welcomed with little fanfare. However, the same could not be said for Ensign Hailey Bishop. Approximately three seconds after the Aerilon native had given her name and thrown her personal-equipment bag into Raptor 490's passenger compartment, Hatch had dubbed her Tractor. The nickname stuck.  
"I reckon she checks out, you?" Deliverance asked Tunnel, one of the squadron's better ECOs. The two had given Tractor an hour-long checkride, where she was to coordinate and provide electronic support for two flights of Vipers scrimmaging against an equal force from the various squadrons based in the shipyards.  
"I'll say," Tunnel snorted. "That's the best close-in tactical coordination I've ever seen. For a nugget." Deliverance nodded in agreement.  
"Glad y'all approve," Tractor smiled shyly.  
"See?" Deliverance said, looking over at Hatch. "I ain't the only one who says that!"  
"Apparently," the other ECO chuckled, looking up from the technical order she had been reading, relating to a weapons-bus update that would allow the Grey Wolves' Raptors to carry heavy rotary KEW pods on their underwing hardpoints.  
"Lunch is in fifteen minutes," Deliverance informed the new squadron member. "Twelve hundred to thirteen-thirty. The mess crew makes up bag lunches if you're running a mission."  
"Thanks," Tractor smiled, genuinely grateful. "They make fried chicken?"  
Krunch good-naturedly punched the other Raptor pilot in the shoulder. "Get that girl a ring, buddy!" he laughed.

**_CIC, Battlestar Banshee  
Helios Delta System  
3 Weeks BCH_**  
"Fred, is it just me, or is something really wrong here?" Commander Nichols asked, looking across the officers' mess at Lieutenant Commander Fred Boyes, the Banshee's executive officer.  
"That's…one way to put it," the former Raptor pilot sighed.  
"Yeah. By the gods, we shouldn't take this one lying down." Nichols sighed. "Something's frakked up beyond all belief in the civvie power structure."  
"How's that?"  
Nichols stared at his XO. "Fred, I need to show you something. Come down to the Vault." The Battlestar captain stood, tossing his tray into a nearby trash bin and walking to the mess' exit.  
Several minutes later, the two officer walked into the Banshee's 'vault', the secure facility used to store sensitive documents. Largely unique to vessels with a secondary or primary intelligence-gathering roles, it was shielded to prevent any and all wireless devices from transmitting into or out of it.  
"Lieutenant, can you pull up the full ONI report? Not that after-action thing I wrote," Nichols asked Lieutenant Julia Reynolds, the vault's current OIC.  
"Yessir. It's for you and Commander Boyes?"  
"That's right."  
"On it, sir." The female lieutenant rose from her computer workstation and ducked into one of many aisles separating cases and cases of data tapes, returning after several minutes. "Here's the tapes. They're not to leave the secure area; you know the drill, sirs."  
"Thank you, Lieutenant." Nichols sat down at one of several available computer terminals cleared for reading classified documents and plugged the data tape containing the appropriate report into the terminal's tape drive. He entered an initialization command, prompting the Office of Naval Intelligence's report to appear in green text on the black-background screen.  
"Seen that, seen that…" Boyes murmured as the senior officer scrolled through the file's hundred-odd pages.  
"Ah. Here we are," Nichols said, stopping towards the end of the document. "Go ahead and read this."  
Analysis of Cylon U87 Command Systems  
_During after-action studies regarding Colonial Marine Corps engagement of U87 Cyber Combat Units at Amphion Station, specific effort was devoted to identifying the systems used in command and control (C2) of the units. Analysis included studies of recovered U87 unit components, as well as electronic intelligence (ELINT) data from Colonial Fleet vessels in the AO.  
Component studies determined that the U87s employed in the Amphion incident were not substantially modified from their original C2 configurations. However, minor modifications observed indicate that the units were enhanced within the past eight months, as determined by the presence of Caprisoft C500 encrypted wireless communications systems. Caprisoft C500s are currently only available to military/law enforcement customers, and no thefts or other unauthorized procurements have currently been reported.  
Electronic intelligence analysis has revealed that the U87s' C2 systems were linked into Amphion Station's directional FTL communications system. This system's transmissions have been studied, with a 95% probability that the receiver is located in Helios Alpha, specifically on Caprica.  
_"DHS markings…law enforcement-only wireless comms…C2 on Caprica…what the actual frak?" Boyes said, his eyes wide.  
"Now that you and I are on the same page…" Nichols began.  
"We figure out why?"  
"Exactly."  
"You think it's DHS?"  
"I really dunno," the Battlestar captain shook his head. "I wouldn't put it past them, though. What with the LIBERTY Act and all. And, does [i]anyone[/i] really trust Adar? Homsec's pretty much his pet army."  
"I don't trust him, sir," Boyes frowned. "Don't quote me on this, but I wouldn't mind someone going Seven Days in Maius on his ass."  
"Good movie," Nichols nodded. "Wish the generals won, though."  
"You think Adar's media cronies would've let that get out?" the XO chuckled.  
"'Course not. Caprica Studios? Give me a break!" Nichols laughed.  
"Well…sir, I have to say…I agree with you. We shouldn't take this lying down. I've read some…a couple of independent networks we've been getting through civilian broadcasts are speculating that they're trying to use it to undermine the Fleet. So, either they're trying to hurt confidence in the government, or…something else. Can't think of what it would be. Don't especially want to, either."  
"Yeah…agreed. I think we've read enough," the Battlestar commander said, withdrawing the data tape from the computer terminal.  
"Enough to know that something's seriously wrong here," Boyes sighed.

**_Colonial Fleet Aerospace Regeneration and Reclamation Detachment 3  
Pima County, Sagitarron  
2 Weeks BCH  
_**Derek Jacobs, CFARR Det 3 shift supervisor, glanced over an email from an Aerilon National Guard fighter squadron requesting reactivation of several Mark VI Vipers.  
"Hey, Cap'n, we got any Mark Sixes on Type 1000?" he called across the cramped office trailer located on an edge of the Fleet 'boneyard'.  
Mark Willis, the former CAG responsible for inventory management shrugged behind his desktop, typing several commands to pull up the Mark VI inventory. "Yeah, I got a few. Eighteen on Type 1000, and sixty-five on Type 2000 parts reclamation. The rest went like hotcakes to the Guard and civvies."  
Jacobs chuckled. "Can you draw up withdrawal paperwork for four?"  
"Yep. I gotta in-process some Block 15 Mark Sixes from the 121st on Craprica- whoops- and pull 7242NC. Some chief on the Galactica wants her for...well, I dunno. The spaceframe's pretty well picked-over."  
"Have fun with that, man. I'm gonna walk the yard for a bit, check out those drones. Stretch my legs; you know the drill."  
"All right. Stick me with the paperwork," Willis grinned.  
"Heh. That's one way to put it." Jacobs rose, putting his computer in standby and walking out of the trailer. The heat hit him all of three seconds after stepping off the third and final step, causing his checked flannel shirt to stick to his back nearly immediately.  
Perhaps twenty yards from the office trailer, row upon row of parked Vipers, Raptors, Asps, and other Fleet small craft sat, baking under the desert sun. Markings faded, canopies and engines coated in latex sealant, many picked-over for parts, the craft sat, waiting for withdrawal or sale for scrap.  
Jacobs walked between a pair of partially-disassembled Mark II Vipers, each missing engines, weapons, and a large portion of their vertical stabilizer. The fighters' formerly bright red markings, faded to a dull pinkish color, proclaimed their former service aboard the _Manticore_, herself sent to the breakers' yards years before.  
He rapped his knuckles twice on the leftmost Viper's stub wing. Dull, hollow, metallic. Dead.  
Underneath the canopy rail, a Colonial banner had been with the caption 'Let's Roll!'. Jacobs remembered that.  
How soon we forget.  
Shaking off forty-year-old memories of twisted, spinning scrap and cold vacuum, the shift supervisor ambled onwards down the row of stripped fighters. In the distance, low hangars, outlines blurred by heat-mirages, betrayed the presence of the flight line.  
It took ten minutes to walk that distance, during which Jacobs passed no one besides for two Marine guards in a battered pickup. He lowered his head, shielding himself from the trail of bone-dry dust kicked up in the truck's wake.  
A half-dozen Mark VI Vipers in the livery of the 121st Fighter-Interceptor Squadron sat parked on the arrivals ramp, their engines cooling down from the delivery flight. The departures ramp boasted two later-model, two-seat Mark VIs in freshly-painted 'Snake' markings characteristic of Aerilon's 160th.  
Neither much interested Jacobs. Stepping onto the cracked tarmac from the baked, hard ground of the storage yards, he immediately turned towards the Virgon Aerospace apron, littered with grey-painted Vipers. The majority also boasted safety-orange markings on fins and wings, while one or two had their cockpits faired over by bare titanium sheeting.  
"Hey!" Jacobs called. "Anyone here?"  
Silence.  
"Hello?"  
He glanced at his wrist chronometer. Its digital display read 1530, 7 Iunius 2000. Frak. A Saturday, he sighed.  
The Virgon Aerospace drone apron always had a somewhat melancholy effect on the shift supervisor. CFARR, it was said, was where fighters went to die. Well, Virgon Aero, he'd reply, is where fighters go to be resurrected and killed again. Permanently.  
The well-worn Mark III at his side showed few signs of being good for much besides its target role. Its DRADIS array had been replaced with a concrete-filled titanium cone, while the wing guns had been removed, their apertures sealed, and the weapons bays bolted shut. A glance into the cockpit showed a large control console mounted in place of the DRADIS display, and that numerous avionics had been removed at some point and never actually replaced.  
Jacobs shook his head in sorrow at seeing once-proud fighters transformed into glorified foam targets. He knew the statistics, knew that several thousand were expended every year. Knew that not much before Mark Fives still existed outside of collections and citizens' militias.  
How many billions of cubits do we throw away a year? How much capability? If the Toasters come back- aw, hell. When they do- how many spaceframes have we chucked for want of ten grand for a cheap-ass target? It's a frakking crying shame, that's what it is.


	6. Chapter 6: Revelations

**_Battlestar Banshee  
Helios Delta System  
2 weeks BCH  
_**Nichols handed the Banshee's on-duty communications technician a handwritten dispatch with routing data scribbled across the top.  
"This official, sir?" the technician, his nametape identifying him as Communications Technician Second Class Brannon, asked.  
"No. Personal traffic, to Helios Gamma; route it accordingly."  
"The fee's three cubits per line, then."  
The battlestar commander pulled a note from his uniform pocket, slapping it down on the desk.  
Brannon looked over the dispatch. "Alas Babylon?" he asked, bemused. "Some scripture for the folks back home?"  
Nichols chuckled. "I suppose you could say that. Carry on, Brannon." He spun on his heel and walked out of the wireless room.

Master Chief Petty Officer Grant Roberts looked at the ship-wide technical order recently sent out, and frowned. Deeply. "What the hell? Did Old Man Nichols lose his mind?"  
"What'd he do, chief?" the deckhand at the workstation besides him asked, looking up from reassembling a DRADIS emitter cell.  
"Uhh..." the deck chief chuckled. "You take a look at this." He passed the TO to the deckhand, who similarly frowned.  
"Purge all CNP programs from small-craft computers; destroy the latest tapes and install v2.1? What the serious frak, chief?"  
Roberts shook his head.  
"You're right. I think the Commander's lost it- he even personally signed this thing. So we're supposed to backdate our Vipers by fifteen years? Why the frak would he even think that's a good idea?"  
"Crazier things have been said, and been right," the chief sighed. "Doubt this is one of those, though. Look, McLean. Orders are orders. Purge the computers; destroy the tapes. It's not your problem if he's lost it. I'll try and get up there and figure out what's up."  
The deckhand shrugged. "I guess so, chief."

Commander Pete Nichols was sitting in an armchair in his quarters, reading yesterday's Caprican newspaper, when he was interrupted by a knock on the reinforced blast door.  
"Enter," he said, not bothering to look up.  
A moment later, Chief Roberts stepped in, wearing standard olive-drab coveralls and a scowl.  
"Sir?"  
"Everything all right, chief?" the Battlestar commander asked, sensing from the enlisted man's tone that something was not, in fact, all right.  
"No sir. It's not."  
Nichols rose, folding the newspaper and setting it down on the side table. "What seems to be the problem, then? I thought we put the Lincoln issue to bed…"  
"No sir, not that. A week in the brig fixed the bastard just fine. It's…it's that TO you distributed. With all due respect, sir, why the hell did you do that?"  
The officer sighed, shaking his head. "Directive from Fleet. They've been having some security issues with the CNP software. There was a precautionary order to backdate; some of the ONI folks said it could extend into the Viper tapes. I acted on it."  
"Security issues? Who are we worried about, exactly?" The scowl refused to leave Roberts' face.  
"Terrorists, pirates, the like," he lied. "Wouldn't want them accessing secure systems, you know."  
"Right," the deck chief said softly. He looked away, staring at a hung landscape painting. "That's not the truth, is it."  
"And what do you mean by that?"  
"We all know about the Homeland Security mess. You think we're gossip-proof, think again. Banshee's a small ship; there's eight hundred of us. Stuff travels. Fast. Sir, I don't know what you've got planned…"  
Nichols glanced at his sidearm, set on the table next to the newspaper. Loaded.  
"…but I've got your back." The deck chief extended his right hand to the surprised Battlestar commander, who shook it. "Sir, I understand the basic principles behind CNP, enough to know that it interfaces with the ship's main computer. Those software wipes are the only way to make sure we don't have some kind of unintentional link, if it's really as bad as you make it out to be. I think you made the right call, sir."  
Roberts left a minute later, leaving Nichols simultaneously perplexed and optimistic. Granted, he's got no way of knowing that there wasn't a Fleet directive…but still. He's been in for a while; he'd suspect it. And yet, he still sided with me. I think.

Paul Bryant stared at the printed diagnostic report, speechless. "Two weeks? Two frakking weeks? Are you kidding me?"  
Mandell shook his head. "I wish I was. Oh, how I wish I wars. That's the thing with backwaters; you never know if they'll have the right spares."  
Upon initiation of separation checks, the BBT Rebel's reactor had experienced a major power fluctuation, causing a surge that damaged the primary navigation computer and several racks of vital avionics. The spares, not stocked in the Sagitarron orbital shipyard, would have to be hauled in from Virgon- where they were on back-order.  
"Of all the places to toast something," Lucy sighed, having given up her station in favor of one of the more comfortable mess seats, "it had to be on the loneliest, dustiest rock this side of Pallas. Lucky us."  
"Eh, you can work on writing some more depressing poetry," Benny chuckled. "Dunno 'bout the rest of y'all, but I never saw the point in roses and black stuff. Too spiny."  
"Black clothes are spiny?" Bryant grinned.  
"Uhhh…sure. You know what I meant."  
"Sure we did," Lucy said smugly.  
"Aw, come off it already," the loadmaster grumbled good-naturedly.  
The female navigator laughed. "Really, now. What are we supposed to do for two weeks?"  
"Nothin'?" Benny suggested.  
"Too boring."  
"Oh, I've got it," Bryant frowned. "You've got to pay for half the Tylium costs, though."  
"Say what?" Lucy cocked her head in mock confusion.  
"I need to make a supply run anyways. I'll fly you down to Tawa on one of the Raptors if you're that desperate to blow your paycheck on a hotel, booze, and shopping."  
"Sounds great! When do we leave?"  
Across the flight deck, Benny loudly palmed his forehead.

**_Dannelly Field, Lowndes County, Aerilon  
2 weeks BCH  
_**First Lieutenant Nathan 'Bluetick' Howe, Aerilon Air National Guard, stepped into the cockpit of his Mark IVD Viper. The thirty-year-old fighter hadn't seen an upgrade since a satellite navigation receiver was installed in the mid-1980s, and it showed. Aside from the receiver and the DRADIS display, the old Viper's cockpit was made up entirely of analog gauges, switches, and indicator lights. She was one of barely four hundred Mark IVs not scrapped or transferred to private militias.  
Howe's crew chief, Master Sergeant Ross Mulrennan, assisted him in securing his helmet and harness before sliding aft to do the same for Lieutenant Drew 'Squirrel' Rinker, Howe's weapons systems officer. Better known as a 'GIB', or 'guy in back', the WSO was responsible for managing stores, communications, and tactical coordination. Indeed, their squadron had cleanly beaten the 125th, another Aerilon Guard unit equipped with modern Mark VIIs, in a exercise two months prior.  
"Good luck, sir," Mulrennan said. The grizzled crew chief stroked his trademark handlebar mustache before descending the access ladder.  
Howe hit the 'CANOPY CLOSE' switch, bringing the heavily-framed canopy down. Moments later, the vacuum-seal system kicked in, and the pressurization brought cockpit pressure up to just over one atmosphere.  
"Wireless check," he called over the Viper's intercom.  
"Squirrel. Check, buddy," Rinker responded.  
"Begin preflight checks."  
"Battery switch."  
"On. Pressurization's up, remember?"  
Squirrel palmed his forehead. "Engine master switches."  
Howe flipped the three switches located beside the Viper's triple throttle. "On, on, on."  
"Tylium pumps."  
"Primed, spooling up."  
Slowly, the fuel pressure gauges rose. The Mark IV boasted an elementary digital engine control system, which lit off the engines in sequence, once the fuel flow was sufficient.  
"Lightoff one through three, check thresholds," Squirrel read off the checklist booklet.  
Bluetick compared the engine gauge readings with the published safe levels. Satisfied, he read the checklist response. "Within safe parameters."  
"RCS port test."  
The pilot flipped the master control switch into 'SPC' mode and cycled the controls. The RCS indicator lights all read green. "All ports, green."  
"Control surface test."  
Howe again flipped the master control switch, this time to 'ATMO'. He and Rinker visually observed the fighter's aerodynamic control surfaces cycling in unison with the control stick and rudder.  
"Pre-takeoff checklist complete."  
Bluetick looked left across the tarmac, where Spooky and Marathon were running up their Mark IVD's engines. Spooky flashed a thumbs-up; each engine on the other fighter lit off moments later.  
The Vipers were painted in the muted three-tone green-and-grey camouflage of the Aerilon Air Guard's 160th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Both bore red-and-white 'MONTGOMERY' fin flashes, and the 160th's serpent-on-saltire emblem. They lurched and began slowly rolling forward in rough unison.  
"Ground, Viper 754," Howe called in on the traffic control frequency.  
"Copy, Viper 754. Go ahead."  
"Requesting takeoff clearance for 754 and 531."  
"Affirmative, 754. 754 and 531 cleared for takeoff; taxi Charlie Six. Be advised, Polar 838 is ahead for takeoff; he'll have some serious wake turbulence."  
The Vipers lifted off shortly after the massive civilian air cargo Condor transport cleared the runway. Both crews entered onto their preplanned course and engaged autopilot before contacting the regional Guard command authority.  
"Cannonball, this is Viper 754, operating callsign Dixie Lead. We're on low-level training route Six-Six-Three-Two-Four-Foxtrot; request scoring services on target. ETA is two-five minutes," Squirrel called in.  
One of the duty officers at the Gulf Air Defense Sector blockhouse in Mobile answered the wireless call. "Copy, Dixie Lead. We'll get DRADIS scoring on your target. Ah, be advised we've got Fleet birds in the area off designated MTRs. They've got free range from ground level to five thousand feet."  
"What the frak? That ain't normal," Bluetick chimed in.  
"Tell me about it, Dixie Lead. We got some authorization flash from the commander of the Battlestar Banshee. Seems legit."  
"Copy, Cannonball. Dunno what to say to that, but we'll be on the lookout. Holler if ya get a collision warning indicator."  
"Will do, Dixie Lead."  
Spooky's Viper trailed about two hundred feet off 754's port wing, oscillating slowly as its terrain-following radar altimeter fed corrections to the autopilot. Neither it nor Howe's fighter carried external stores; they would be relying on simulated DRADIS bombing for the training sortie.  
"One-five minutes to target," Bluetick announced after roughly ten minutes' low-level flight at .85 Mach over rural Aerilon.  
"Thanks, man." Howe glanced down at the DRADIS scope. The antenna swept back and forth, emitting a soft beep after every scan. Suddenly, the 'new return' tone went off, twice, in rapid succession. "Two contacts. No IFF; skin paints only. Low altitude, ten o'clock high and crossing. Range fifteen miles. They gotta be Mark Sevens, anything else and we'd pick 'em up a lot sooner."  
"Yeah, I got 'em too. No DRADIS spikes; doesn't look like they know we're here. On their current track, we'll cross within a mile or two in about a minute."  
"Dixie Lead, Cannonball. Be advised you have a potential collision alarm for contacts designated Kilo-Charlie One and Two. Bearing zero-five-five, range twelve miles," another Air Defense officer reported.  
"Copy, Cannonball. Request you divert those Vipers."  
"Dixie Lead, they've got some kind of weird-ass…thing; they ain't in our system. We've got no authority. Advised you make your altitude two-five-zero feet."  
Frak, Squirrel swore under his breath. What the hell is wrong with these Fleet guys?"Copy that, Cannonball." The pilot looked over at 531. "Dixie Two, climb to two-five zero," he ordered. He then twisted the altitude control knob on the autopilot console, feeling a momentary punch of g-force as the Viper jumped upwards.  
"One-zero minutes to target."  
"Contact! Visual contact, eight o'clock low, crossing!" Marathon sang out.  
Squirrel swung around in his escape seat, frantically searching for the target. There. "Vipers, Mark Seven. Fleet markings. They ain't Guard," he said. "Wait a mom- what the frak? Those bastards just executed a pop-up attack on some industrial complex or whatever, an' this ain't a designated range. Bluetick, log our position."  
"Grid ref 889K2GT4 logged," the WSO replied.  
"I think that was a dry run," Spooky observed. "Seein' as they didn't blow the joint up that I can see."  
"Check your MTR tables," Squirrel ordered. "See if that complex matches anything."  
"On it," Bluetick nodded, pulling a regional MTR index from his map case and leafing through several pages.  
"Yeah, no. It ain't an MTR target. I checked SATNAV on that grid ref, though. It's…uh, it's a Department of Homeland Security staging facility they just practice-bombed."  
"Damn strange. They override Air Defense with a letter from their Battlestar commander, then come in and practice-bomb some Fed-rat- err...federal compound. One or the other, I'd get."  
"Something ain't right, agreed there," Spooky concurred.

**_Battlestar Banshee  
Helios Delta System  
2 weeks BCH  
_**"This won't fly with the Commander," Ensign Olivia Haynes, the Banshee's current on-duty communications officer sighed as she read over a news release flashed in from Aerilon only three minutes ago.  
"What won't, Haynes?" Lieutenant Hall asked, looking up from her tactical console.  
The young communications specialist handed Hall the printed release.  
"Oh, frak," the Battlestar's tactical officer muttered.  
"What's wrong?" another technician, a young male Leonian, asked.  
"Adar just announced unilateral retirement of six battlestar groups and a shift in funding to Federal counterterrorism operations in response to the Cybele incident," Hall snapped. "That cuts Twelfth Fleet down to just the Invincible and those two Valkyrie-classes."  
"Lords of Kobol, that loon's political grandstanding is gonna get us all killed one of these days…"  
Hall shook her head. "Someone's got to show it to Nichols, though. Might as well be me."

**_CIC, Battlestar Ulysses  
Helios Delta System  
2 Weeks BCH  
_**"That's the emptiest I've ever seen Scorpian, sir," Lieutenant Wolfe observed idly.  
"Emptiest…damn straight it was," Murray agreed. "Looked like most of Fifth Fleet up and left. Any kind of exercises I didn't hear about?"  
"No," Kleiner shook his head and frowned.  
"We've been getting a ton of…weird chatter, though, sir," Wolfe said. "Tons of Fifth Fleet assets are orbiting Hestia. Comms is saying it's around seven Battlestar groups."  
"Which?"  
"Cerberus, Phoenix, Medon, a few others. Mostly Mercury-class, a new Columbia…oh, and Banshee. She's orbiting Aerilon. The others are around Hestia."  
"Duck, you served with Nichols on Arcas. Who was your CO?" Kleiner asked the Ulysses' CAG.  
Duck hesitated for a moment. "Lima. Commander Juan Lima."  
"Now Fleet Admiral Juan Lima, commander of Fifth Fleet and the Phoenix," Murray finished.  
"Commander Murray, is there any way we could get a copy of Fifth Fleet's orders?" Wolfe inquired.  
The Battlestar captain shook his head. "Maneuver orders are on a need to know basis; you know that. Besides, it's just routine maneuvers anyway," he said, not really believing himself.  
Wolfe gave his commander a knowing look, then turned back to his console.  
Duck looked at Murray expectantly.  
"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out if and when it becomes relevant," Murray said quietly.  
Suddenly, the tactical officer frowned. "More chatter. Vipers, and a lot of 'em. Estimate three hundred; all heading towards the Hestia station's orbital defense platforms."  
"We've got a two-hour communications C-lag," Duck pointed out. "They launched a while ago, then."  
Kleiner took the opportunity to speak up. "CAG, any idea what they might be doing?"  
"Oh, simple. Practice strike runs on orbital defenses. The question is, why."  
"You'd only have to go up against massive orbital networks if you had a major planetary rebellion o' some sort. We ain't had a real rebellion in fifteen years, and even that was tiny," Murray interjected. "There's just no reason to run that big of an exercise for something maybe one or two BSGs might do in the next few decades. Besides, there'd be all kinds of warning orders if it were your bog-standard exercise."  
"Unless they're planning something," Wolfe said under his breath."  
"Such as?"  
"Caprica's got the thickest orbital guns of anywhere in the Colonies, sir. And, uh, Adar's not exactly too popular with the Fleet right now, if you get my drift."  
Ensign Dremmond stared at the tactical officer from her station.  
"Ensign, what'd they teach you in school?" Murray asked the young navigation officer. "'Bout civilian control of the military?"  
"That…that it's good, sir?" Dremmond squeaked, her by-the-book answer hiding some very real uncertainties.  
Ulysses' commander shook his head. "Might be, but it ain't real, miss. If they do something that puts the Colonies at risk, for political expediency…well, I'll put it this way. We swore an oath to protect the Colonies. So did you."  
"Admiral Lima thought the same way fifteen years ago," Duck muttered.  
Wolfe shook his head. "And there lies the rub."  
Murray sighed. "I ain't about to commit my battlegroup to a coup over a few decommissionings, but you can bet your bottom cubit I'll personally turn the key on KEW slugs for the Capital District if those weasels sell civilians out for their own backroom deals."  
Kleiner chuckled. "Frak me...if it isn't Old By-The-Book threatening to nuke Craprica."  
"Commander Murray, sir, I have a wireless voice call from the Axylus," a young technician piped up.  
Murray nodded. "Send it through." He adjusted his headset, listening for the telltale click-buzz of a successful connection.  
"Commander Murray, this is Lieutenant Commander Thomas Corning, Missilestar Axylus."  
"I met you this morning, Tom. No need to introduce yourself every time we speak."  
"Uh...okay then, sir. Anyways. Long-range DRADIS picked up a complete ass-ton, pardon my Libran, of Vipers near Hestia, makin' all kinds of attack runs. Wireless chatter is...interesting."  
"Noted. We're seeing the same thing; it looks like routine maneuvers, but there haven't been any WARNORDs out."  
"Sir, Axylus was only recently transferred out of Fifth Fleet. I mean days ago."  
"Right. What's your point, Commander Corning?"  
"We have a copy of maneuver orders from four days ago; we deleted the primary but the file can still be recovered."  
Murray sighed, knowing that his next action would be in full violation of Colonial Fleet regulations and could result in a court-martial under normal circumstances. He was banking on these not being normal circumstances.  
"Copy that. Request immediate FLASH transmission of the file."  
"I've got the eggheads working on recovery; it'll be transmitted shortly."  
"Thanks, Tom."  
A few minutes later, after some cautious work by one of the newer Missilestar's computer technicians, a copy of the maneuver orders rolled off Ulysses' comms laser-printer. Wolfe immediately snatched the order up and handed it to Murray.  
"Now just what in the Hell is Operation NORTHWOODS?" Kleiner grumbled, looking sideways at the papers.  
Duck blinked. "Damned if I know..."  
Dremmond stared at the executive officer, her eyes wide as saucers. "Northwoods?" she blinked.  
"You know something 'bout it, Miss Dremmond?" Murray asked, simultaneously confused and intrigued.  
"I...um...you know those weird newsgroups? Lazarus? Stuff like that?"  
The Battlestar commander stared blankly at the young navigation officer.  
"They tend to circulate conspiracy theories, sir," Duck explained quickly.  
"Right. Carry on."  
"So...well, a guy dug up some information on Operation NORTHWOODS a year or so ago."  
"And how'd he pull it off?"  
Dremmond blushed. "Everyone thinks he hacked into the Fleet defense mainframe. I'd guess it was on Caprica..."  
"There'd hardly be a network to hack elsewhere," Duck interjected.  
"So, this came from pretty high up in Fleet, or so he said. At the system command level, most likely. It was...well, sir, it's a contingency operation. If the President, the Quorum, or whoever starts cutting the Fleet too badly, there were supposed to be plans in place to execute high-profile false-flag attacks to put them back in their place. And, if those failed, Battlestar group-level operations to place key government functions and installations under control of people the admirals who wrote the thing trusted."  
"Did any of it include massed readiness exercises?" Wolfe inquired. "If you remember, at least."  
"Uh...I...no, I don't remember, sir. Shows of force, probably. It would make sense."  
"The whole thing's damn ironic if you ask me," Kleiner muttered. "After the Cybele attack- and hell, that could've been Fleet after all- Adar unilaterally gutted Twelfth Fleet to pump up funding for some brown-shirts of his. What do you want to bet the same thing happens after the next 'incident'?"  
"For all we know, Cybele could have been HomeSec pretending to be Fleet pretending to be Gemenon Liberation Front," Dremmond observed. "With HomeSec markings on those Cylons- those'd make people think HomeSec was framed."  
"Gods dammit, if this ain't a mess..." Murray sighed.  
"What the hell do I tell my pilots, sir?" Duck wondered aloud.  
"Tell 'em it's just an exercise, tell 'em everything's normal. This does not leave this CIC, am I clear?"  
"Yessir. Crystal."  
Murray shook his head in disbelief. "Just keep operating as normal. Ulysses is stayin' on the sidelines unless- who am I kidding, this is until- the blackwater hits the ventilation system."

"We're just sitting on our asses, useless, during what could be the biggest domestic shitstorm this side of those STO nutjobs just before the Uprising," Kleiner growled, looking at his commanding officer. The two Fleet officers, accompanied by Dremmond and a pair of Marines, sat in the otherwise-unoccupied upper officers' mess.  
"What we're doing," Murray countered, "is keeping out of a frakking mess we don't understand!"  
"He's right, Commander Kleiner," Dremmond said quietly. "This could have so many layers we don't even want to know about."  
"You even said so yourself, Commander!" Kleiner hissed. "You'd turn the key yourself! Were you bluffing? That's a damn fine example in front of the crew!"  
"If," Murray clarified, "if the politicians sold out the civilians, meaning the general public. I ain't about to let folks back home- hell, your family and friends on Sagitarron- get screwed by whatever Adar and his cronies let through with their Gods-damned disarmament!"  
"Same here, Murray," the XO sighed. "We need to take an active role in this. Lima and Fifth Fleet have the right idea. Rally Seventh behind him, hell, behind you. Get Dauntless, Euterpe, and Goshen in on things. Maybe the Guard on the Colonies where they're willing to listen."  
The Battlestar's commander sighed. "We're agreeing. fundamentally. We both want to protect the Colonies from spoiled frakking children in office. I just can't help but agree with Miss Dremmond." The navigation officer gave a quick smile. "There's more to this we don't know about, don't understand. I don't know if we'd want to."  
"Lazarus and the rest sometimes found some off-the-wall stuff," Dremmond agreed. "NORTHWOODS, well, there were a few sources in Fleet- recently-retired, you know the drill- that confirmed it. A lot of the other stuff is ONI material, so if you don't want to know about Northwoods and its corollaries, you don't want to know this exists."  
"Try me," Kleiner grinned.  
"Contingencies in case the Cylons come back, in case the Cylons infiltrated Fleet, hell, there's ops orders already written up to nuke Gemenon halfway back to Kobol."  
The XO frowned. "As if that would surprise anyone."  
"Cylons infiltrating the Fleet?"  
"No, Craprica wanting to nuke Gemenon."  
Dremmond rolled her eyes. "Remember where I'm from, sir."  
Murray sighed. "I remember. And you might want to get your family off there. Strictly off the record, obviously."  
"Sir, do you honestly think I haven't given any thought to that?"  
"Based on all that stuff you apparently read, I'm not, not anymore."  
"The thing is," Murray began, "we need a unified plan behind this. Operations orders ready to go for Warden, Protector, and Axylus."  
"And our air wing. We'll need Duck in on this as well," Kleiner advised.  
"Right."  
The navigation officer sighed. "We'd also have to worry about linking up with Fifth Fleet. I think we could get away with standard wireless, but I don't know how their COMSEC is set up."  
"Nobody does," Kleiner shook his head.  
"He's right," Murray nodded. "Hell, this could all be a ruse. Adar luring out officers who're willing to depose him, and claim it as justification to further downsize."  
"Sir…" Dremmond whispered.  
"Spit it out, ensign," Kleiner snapped.  
"Something else I came across- some guy who went by Endor, he's a yard worker somewhere-"  
"Newsgroups?" Murray asked.  
Dremmond nodded. "He does refit work on warships. Fleet, Guard, orbital customs and rescue…well, his yard just brought in Euryale and Aetna. They're ex-Fifth Fleet."  
"They were just decommissioned," Kleiner pointed out. "The yards are just mothballing them for storage. Nothing odd about that but the fact I'm saying something looks normal."  
"I wish it were that simple, sir. Homeland Security brought in paramilitary crews to train on both. Endor's crews aren't mothballing those Gunstars; they're updating them."  
"For Adar's private fleet, controlled solely by the federal executive branch. Frakking lovely," Murray sighed.  
The female ensign nodded solemnly. "Sirs," she said. "It's falling apart. Think whatever you want about this mess...it's probably all true."

**_Colonial Fleet Aerospace Regeneration and Reclamation Detachment 3  
Pima County, Sagitarron  
1 Week BCH  
_**Derek Jacobs scowled, reading yet another email- or a series of several dozen, in this case- and looking out the office trailer's window.  
"So, Adar goes and dumps an air wing of Mark Sevens on us after decommissioning those Battlestar groups?" Willis chuckled. "'least we know they ain't gonna get tossed for scrap anytime soon. Hell, I've already gotten a few messages from civvies who want a Mark Seven to round out their collection. I figure anyone who wants one as a fightin' ship is gonna wait 'till prices come down."  
"I know I would."  
Jacobs scowled again. A half-dozen Condor transports- each laden with twelve Mark Seven Vipers- were now occupying just over half of the CFARRD flightline. Unloading was scheduled to take roughly twenty hours each, and CFARRD only had enough crews on hand to work two at a time. That left a six-day period where other deliveries and departures were severely restricted.  
There were, at least, some departures of combat-capable Vipers. The two for the 160th had been ferried to their new home three days ago, while the half-dozen Mark Sixes requested last week were undergoing restoration under awnings on the departure ramp. 7242NC had left yesterday, mostly disassembled and shipped with several crates of spares in case Tyrol- Jacobs had gotten in contact with the chief- had thoughts about restoring her to spaceworthy condition.  
And then there was the fact that two of the Condors had experienced malfunctions in their FTL drives. Jacobs would have found it hilarious- a mechanical failure in a literal field of spares- but for the fact that this detachment of CFARRD hadn't had a Condor on inventory in nine years. Replacements would be flown in from the factory on Aerilon, a five-day endeavor.  
"Ya know, I can't say that I mind having some Sevens," Willis mused. "I'll make sure they don't get stripped down too far. They oughta be on Type 1000. That's actually not my paranoia speaking, that's saving Fleet cubits down the line."  
"I detect your paranoia whispering, grasshopper."  
The retired CAG burst out laughing. "Heh. Right. Sure."  
Jacobs hit the send button, firing off a memo to the maintenance division leader, and stood. "I got the arrangements all set for those new birds. Time to take a look at the unloading and see how they've managed to frak it up this time."  
"Should be hysterical."  
"Grasshopper."

* * *  
"You see," Andre Banks said, gesturing towards a wingless Mark Seven, "they disassembled 'em for transport. My guys can't spray latex on exposed internals; you run the risk of damaging wiring or moving parts. We've got to reassemble the damn things, preferably on the tarmac."  
"Frakking great," Willis snorted. "How much time for each? To get it in storable condition?"  
The technician stroked his chin in thought for a moment. "Four, maybe five hours."  
"Times seventy-two Vipers is…three hundred or so…"  
"Three hundred sixty at worst-case," Jacobs corrected.  
Willis grunted in frustration and kicked the tarmac with one steel-toed boot. "Gods dammit, that's weeks of work."  
"Fleet knows that unloading these is gonna be a bitch. They're okay with not gettin' the T-birds back for a while. They expected it…" Jacobs frowned deeply. "Hold on a second. When were those Battlestars decommissioned?"  
"A week ago, give or take," Banks shrugged. "What of it?"  
"Flight time, plus disassembly time, loading time, miscellaneous bureaucratic feldercarb, add that up."  
"Two, three weeks," Willis blanched.  
"Banks, you an' I are gonna go over every inch of one of those Mark Sevens. Something doesn't add up here."  
"Right…" the technician grimaced. "9464KT over there is mostly reassembled. She's got her wings on…"  
"And her escape seat out. That's not procedure. We get 'em flyable-" Jacobs looked at a wingless Viper being wheeled down a Condor's front loading ramp- "well, not missing any pieces, at least- and stuff the sensitive and flammable bits in one o' the warehouses." He walked over to 9464KT, which bore markings from VFA-82 Marauders, and a faded overall blue-grey paint scheme.  
"VFA-82?" Willis looked skeptical.  
"Banks, that phone o' yours get data service out here?" Jacobs inquired.  
"It does…"  
"Look up 9464KT on the Scramble database site."  
"Hold on, sir…" The technician fiddled with the wireless device for several minutes. "Err…yeah. VF-82 was her last assigned unit. Thing is, it was deactivated in '96. She was at CFARRD 9 on Virgon for the last three years. There's photos to prove it."  
"If these aren't the Vipers from the BSGs Adar decommissioned last week…then where'd they go?" Willis said, wide-eyed.

**_CIC, Battlestar Ulysses  
Helios Delta System  
1 Week BCH_**

"You see," Wolfe explained, "there've been massive fighter movements across the Colonies. Internal chatter confirms it, civvie newsgroups and paper media confirm it, you name it, it confirms it. You've seen those DRADIS tracks with hundreds of Vipers off Fifth Fleet. I've had Comms review Fleet and Guard dispatches, and less than half of this matches up with planned exercises or maneuvers. Something's up."  
Duck frowned.  
Murray felt a chill run down his spine. He knows...  
"My guess is, it's connected to the Cylons at Amphion," the CAG said. He looked at Murray, as if asking his commanding officer for permission to continue.  
The Ulysses' commander nodded.  
"Well, here's a bombshell for you, Mister Wolfe," Duck began. The tactical officer froze- the usually-informal Duck breaking out the 'Mister' indicated something beyond wrong.  
"Yes...?"  
"Okay. Well, there were several variants on the after-action report from Amphion. Mostly by security clearance. At your level, it talked about possible links to the Department of Homeland Security. Higher up...well, it confirmed those links. Factually speaking, someone in Homeland Security controlled those Cylons. The who and why, Fleet doesn't want to touch, but most folks with sense have their guesses. I'll give you three, and Roslin mounting a coup doesn't count."  
Wolfe snorted at the thought of the soft-spoken Secretary of Education attempting to overthrow Adar. Still, he thought to himself. I can't pretend I didn't guess that this could be coming...  
"Your guess, Lieutenant?" Commander Murray asked, having meandered over from the DRADIS plot console.  
"Easy. If the definitive information is locked down that tightly, the powers that be don't want it escaping. Therefore, it must either be true or part of a deliberate ruse aimed at senior Fleet officers. Perhaps a ruse designed to undermine Fleet's confidence in the government and instigate action."  
"Define action," Murray frowned.  
"A coup, like you said, Duck. But not Roslin- a military coup. My guess is that Adar wants to weed out the disloyal for his own...goals. Whatever those may be."  
"Congratulations," Duck grinned, extending his hand to the bewildered tactical officer. "You passed. Welcome to the Neutrality Club."  
"I...what?"  
"We've got what everything indicates to be a regionally-based leadership schism in the Fleet," Murray explained. "Folks from Caprica, Libra, Picon, them, tend to support Adar and his policies. Those of us from Sagitarron, Aerilon, Gemenon, and the like...don't. That's fact, not conjecture, not hypothesis. Eighty-seven percent of Aerilonians voted for the other guy. Fact. Now, I don't think that dividing us by our home Colonies is whoever's goal. If you ask me, it's coincidence, nothing more. The Neutrality Club...it's our battlestar group. Maybe some contacts I'd rather not name. The bottom line is- we ain't taking sides here. We won't join some coup attempt, but we won't stand in its way either, unless it starts threatening the Colonies."  
Wolfe took a deep breath and held his head in one hand for a moment.  
"All right. I'm in."

**_Onboard Raptor 593  
Low Aerilon Orbit, Helios Delta System  
1 Week BCH_**

"I always hate this part..." Hatch groaned as the Raptor pilot eased the craft's nose downwards to begin planetary reentry.  
"Aw, toughen up," Deliverance teased his ECO good-naturedly. "If it don't kill ya, it makes ya stronger."  
Hatch and Deliverance, along with Krunch, Tractor, and Walrus, were strapped into fold-down jump seats in 593's cabin. Each had a forty-eight-hour liberty pass. Deliverance had been able to wrangle the longer time slot to visit his family in Pine Bluff, a three-hour train ride from the Birmingham air base the Raptor would be landing at shortly.  
"So, Tractor," Hatch said, trying to take her mind off the gradual buffeting of the upper reaches of Aerilon's atmosphere. "You drive tractors?"  
The ensign blinked. "Uhh...no."  
"What?" Krunch exclaimed in mock disbelief.  
"Not tractors. Module builders."  
It was now Hatch's turn to look lost.  
"Basically, it's a hydraulic compactor that- well, you route the lateral product feed off a picker into its receiving well, and you get eight-cubic-yard high-compaction modules for an auto-baling gin-"  
Hatch, again, looked lost.  
"It compacts cotton," Deliverance said tersely.  
"Oh...err...okay. Are you going to introduce us to your family?"  
"If you can tell the difference between a tractor and a combine...maybe."  
Tractor giggled.  
Twenty minutes later, the Raptor touched down at Cleburne Field, the Aerilon Guard base on the outskirts of Birmingham. Home to the 117th, a mixed wing of refueling-configured Condors and Mark IVR recon Vipers, the sprawling facility was the largest Guard base on Aerilon.  
Deliverance idly noted the pair of Mark VIs tucked into hardened aircraft shelters fifty yards from where the Raptor had landed. That would not have been especially notable, were it not for the fact that the Vipers' pilots could be seen in their cockpits. Their helmets were off and the canopy was slid back, but it was very clearly an alert-5 posture.  
Then, there was the second Viper's payload.  
Tapping Krunch on the shoulder, Deliverance quietly drew the other pilot's attention to the ordnance slung under the Mark VI's centerline hardpoint.  
"Copperhead?" Krunch mouthed.  
Deliverance nodded.  
Krunch shuddered.  
"So, what's our ride outta here?" Hatch wondered aloud.  
"Train," Deliverance said. "Three hours to Pine Bluff. I was gonna have my brother give us a ride, but he's got militia callup training this weekend."  
Hatch frowned. "He's got what?"  
"Militia training," Tractor explained. "Three-week basic infantry course. All Aerilonian men take it before they turn twenty-one, but you can pay in to exempt yourself."  
"Yeah, Tim doesn't have the cash for that. Hell, buying a decent plate vest was a stretch for him, let alone a rifle. You're supposed to have at least a semi-auto; bolt-action hunting rifles really don't cut it. I gave him an old M22, full-auto, I got a few years ago."  
"Frak, I'd love to get my hands on one of those," Walrus grumbled. "Gods-damned paperwork back home is ridiculous."  
Deliverance shrugged. "That's not the best you can get, though. My da' brought an M440 squad-support gun for his."  
Hatch flashed him an odd look.  
"What, cotton prices were good that year."  
Soon thereafter, all five Raptor crewmen- 593's crew was tasked with acquiring several spare navigation computers- had boarded the train into Pine Bluff. More specifically, it was destined for Jasper, some fifty miles north of Deliverance's home, but would make a stop at Pine Bluff's single-platform station. Krunch, Hatch, Tractor, and Deliverance had occupied one set of face-to-face seats, while Walrus sat several rows behind.  
"What's your average population density out here?" Hatch asked, looking at Tractor.  
The new ECO shrugged. "Fifteen, twenty per square mile."  
Hatch whistled.  
"Somebody's got to grow all your food. Skyscrapers ain't conducive to that."  
The Aerilon landscape- largely scraggly pines, fields, and the odd silo or farmhouse- flashed by at eighty miles per hour while Hatch absentmindedly stared out the window. "I..." she twisted her mouth into a grimace. "I couldn't ever live out here."  
Tractor grinned. "So where're you from, then?"  
"Altis, Caprica."  
"Go figure."  
"And what's that supposed to mean?"  
"Y'all bought seventy percent of our crop the year before I 'listed. I ain't the smartest gal you're likely to meet, but ten cubits says Caprica can't feed itself, therefore, you've got to have folks like my family and the rest of us out here, as you say."  
Hatch appeared to simmer with rage, crossing her arms and frowning petulantly. Krunch, seated across from her, snorted loudly.  
"All right, you two. No catfights; I'd appreciate that," Deliverance shook his head. Krunch shot him a look that said don't take sides, buddy. The naval lieutenant nodded subtly.  
Hatch shot Tractor a dirty look. The other ECO shrugged, pulled a paperback from a jacket pocket, crossed her legs, and began reading. Amid the Alien Corn- Effects of the Cylon Uprising on Agricultural Yields, 1949-1990.

* * *  
"Well, we all watched the gun-cam footage," Krunch said, motioning animatedly. "So, she locks the ECM system- our Raptors use a tight-beam electronic attack system on top of the suppression jammers- onto this Viper's missile, right? And does a range gate pull-off. The missile- it's a simulated missile, but bear with me, okay? It thinks the target's closer than it is. The proximity fuze detonates. She pulls this three more times."  
Deliverance's father gave a low whistle from his position on the living room armchair.  
Tractor blushed and looked at the floor. "Beginner's luck," she said meekly.  
"Beginner's luck, hell!" Walrus exclaimed. The Libran, who bore an impressive resemblance to the elder Collins, had also watched the recordings and was no less impressed. "You don't see that sort of thinking much. I've heard of it- Javelins use an active radar seeker, and ECOs think up weird tactics like that- but never by a nugget, and never multiple times."  
Wyatt Collins nodded, impressed, "you know, I never flew- my buddies and I played holoband games as kids, but nothing serious. I ain't familiar with the jargon, but sounds like you did some damn fine work there, Miss Bishop."  
"Thank you, sir. I...it was just a simulation. Y'all don't need to make so big a deal about it."  
"Take some pride in yourself, kid!" Krunch jibed.  
"Pride's a sin..."  
Deliverance shrugged, conceding the point. "Are y'all about ready to get somethin' to eat?" he asked, deciding to change the subject.  
A chorus of affirmatives provided the answer to that particular question.  
The drive into Pine Bluff proper from the Collins farmhouse took fifteen minutes. As Hatch didn't relish the idea of riding in a truck bed again, the group took two vehicles. Krunch and Tractor rode with Deliverance in his truck, an old two-tone blue pickup with an M22R in a gun rack, its bed half full of two-by-fours and a rusted fence gate, while Walrus and Hatch got a ride with Wyatt. Most of the Raptor crew had elected to wear their flightsuits, while Deliverance changed into rough denim and plaid flannel. The uniform he had worn before joining the Fleet.  
Mrs. Collins had had to work late at the cooperative that night, putting a home-cooked dinner out of the question. Deliverance had already planned to meet her at a local restaurant. Additionally, his younger sister, Tessa, would join the family and Fleet pilots partway through.  
"This isn't half bad, you know," Hatch mumbled suspiciously, taking a bite of pizza. The pizza sat in the center of the table, alongside a platter of smoked pork and baked beans.  
"Did ya expect anything else?" Deliverance grinned. "We've been comin' here since I was a kid. Best food in Pine Bluff."  
"Right, according to all twenty people here," Hatch joked. Tractor shot her another look.  
"Kidding, kidding. How many is it really?"  
"Six hundred eighty."  
"Eighty-one," Wyatt Collins corrected his son. "One o' the Jenkins kids died, and Becca Macintosh had her twins."  
"God bless her. How's she holdin' up?"  
"All right. Still in the county hospital, but Tim says she'll be discharged tomorrow."  
"That poor dear," Mrs. Collins sighed. "Seventeen..."  
Krunch frowned sympathetically.  
"Couldn't she have gotten an-"  
"Don't try to understand," Tractor whispered to Hatch, interrupting and silencing the senior ECO.  
"So, you're all in Jim's squadron?" Mrs. Collins inquired, looking at Walrus.  
The four other Fleet pilots nodded.  
She smiled. "I guess this is your semi-official welcome to Aerilon, then. What do all y'all think?"  
Tractor laughed. "Ma'am, I'm from Mobile."  
"I thought I recognized that accent. Good to know Jim ain't the only one of us in the Fleet."  
"Mom, our Battlestar's commander is from Moultrie, remember?"  
Mrs. Collins nodded slowly. "That sounds familiar, it does."  
"He's a good man. Honest."  
"I think I speak for all of us when I say we'd follow him to Hell and back."  
"Hear, hear," Krunch agreed.  
Suddenly, Mr. Collins' cell phone rang. He frowned, looking at the number on the phone's outer screen. He flipped it open and brought it up to speak.  
"Hello?"  
"We're out in town, Keith. Thanks for calling. Is it those damn kids again?"  
"Friend of ours. Sheriff's deputy," Deliverance explained. "We had some trouble with teenagers tearin' up our fields."  
"I...no, I haven't seen her since this morning. She was supposed to meet us for dinner in fifteen minutes or so. Why...why do you ask?"  
A few seconds later, Wyatt Collins went ash-white.

* * *  
"It wasn't your fault," Hatch sighed. "She's in the gods' hands now..."  
"Oh, don't tell me you believe that tripe," Deliverance growled. "There's only one o' those, and he don't live on Olympus. Frak that."  
"What...you're..."  
"Monad. Yeah. Most o' us are, 'out here'."  
"I...what does that..." Hatch shifted uncomfortably on the porch swing.  
"Ár n-Athair atá ar neamh, go naofar d'ainim, go dtagfadh do ríocht..."  
Hatch stood up and walked into the house. Tractor came out a minute later, allowing the screen door to slam behind her.  
"That didn't go over well, did it?"  
Deliverance shook his head. "She'll get over it."  
"Never heard the Lord's Prayer in Old Aerilonian, has she."  
"You can damn near count on your hands. those who have from offworld."  
Tractor sat down on the swing beside Deliverance, letting her soft blonde hair, streaked with red, fall over the back.. "She's right, you know. There's nothing you could have done..."  
"That temperance initiative a few years ago. I, the young invincible, voted 'gainst it. My folks supported it."  
"If you didn't, someone else would have. 'Sides, that ass would have gotten ahold of moonshine or somethin' anyways."  
"Frak you, using my own logic against me."  
Tractor smiled wryly. "Girls do that."  
"You ain't a girl anymore..."  
"Twenty-two last November."  
"Damn straight. I was born in November."  
"Eighteenth?"  
"You'd think we were twins." Deliverance grimaced. "I...I'm having a hard time believing she's gone. I hardly ever saw her after she turned sixteen. She moved out not too long afterwards, that's why she was meetin' us late. God only knows what she did to pay the rent. Tessa never did like workin' hard. Feels like yesterday that I left for undergrad pilot training. And then...just like that..."  
"Bang?"  
"Bang. T-boned by some jackass kid with a BAC of point-four. DOA."  
"Point-oh-four?"  
"Point-four."  
Tractor sighed. "Just...don't bottle it all up. I ain't tryin' to sound like a shrink, but...this is gonna hurt. You can come to me 'bout it if you need to. Krunch, too. He's got your back, he says."  
"That...means a lot. I think I'm going straight-edge now."  
"You're talking comprehensibly. That's a bad sign."  
"Shoot. Thanks. Sobriety's bad now?"  
"Naw, I..." Tractor hesitated for a moment before leaning close and resting her head on Deliverance's shoulder. "If I were like half the nympho gals who joined Fleet, you'd get a pity frak right now. But my momma raised me right, Reformed Monad..." she kissed the pilot on the cheek. "Let's go inside. It's gettin' cold."


End file.
